


Pink Spirals

by FailedALIAS



Category: Steven Universe - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Blood and Violence, Excessive Swearing, F/F, Mental Illness, No Smut, Not Self-Insert, OC is her own character, Possessive Behavior, Suicide mention, Toxic Relationship, drug mention, everyone is gay here, not audience surrogate OC, sex mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-21 05:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 85,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21069686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailedALIAS/pseuds/FailedALIAS
Summary: "The truth poured on her like a deluge, seeping into her mind, filling in each crack of doubt and unearthing every root of denial. She never felt so hollow, and now she knew why.She was alone."What if Spinel was a lot less competent, and after failing to steal an injector or a rejuvenator, finds herself at the wrong address to boot? Instead of savior of the galaxy, the homicidal pink gem finds herself tied to the depressed, self-destructive human, Dusty?(Not a self-insert or reader surrogate fic. I wanted to explore the idea of instead of Spinel finding comfort and healing in another just as damaged as her — a la Pink Pearl — she found someone whose broken edges were a little more sharp. There’s no smut in this whatsoever and never will be. Sex will be mentioned and referenced, but never detailed.)





	1. Of Biscuits, Brownies, and Alien Invaders

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I’m not expecting many people to really read this. I put a lot of effort into it and think it’s pretty good, and I have some interesting places I want to take this story, but I first and foremost wrote this for myself and recognize that due to this, the story probably isn’t going to click with most people. Thanks so much for giving it a shot. (Also I wrote this and the second chapter on my phone so if the formatting isn't great, that's the reason, and I'd love some feedback if that were the case.)

**Prologue**

_She pulled and pulled at bubblegum-colored hair, looping fingers through messy strands for grip and tugging to rend it from her scalp. Eyes stung with salt as tears flooded her vision, blurring the image she hated so much which faced her, before spilling over down her cheeks. Her throat felt clogged with heaving sobs, chest shaking up and down at an uneven, panicked rhythm. _

_The truth poured on her like a deluge, seeping into her mind, filling in each crack of doubt and unearthing every root of denial. She never felt so hollow, and now she knew why. _

_She was alone. _

**Chapter One: Of Biscuits and Brownies and Alien Invaders **

Dusty woke to a hangover that covered her body like a blanket, which she supposed gave her something at least, because her actual blanket seemed to be missing. So, in addition to her sweating, nausea, dry mouth and throbbing headache, she awoke to the invasive coastal breeze that waltzed in through her open window and around her room like it owned the place. The distant sound of seagull squawking like tiny hammers drumming on her skull. 

Dusty decided she hated the ocean. 

Oddly enough, she noticed, her toes were the only part of her that was warm, which didn’t make any sense, since her circulation was only (slightly) better than her personality._ How the fuck is... oh right, I fell asleep in my boots again. _

It couldn’t be said that sleep for Dusty on a Friday night was anything one could fit into a schedule or routine. It was more akin to the inevitable end to some active disaster, like the final, quiet halt of a train wreck that’s flung off the rails. Or the last convulse of a dying animal. Or the teacups at FunLand. This was true for Friday and... shit, well, most nights when she really thought about it. And just like the lawsuits those cups of death attracted, hangovers followed her sleep more often than not. 

She was fun. And really, really had to piss. 

Dusty groaned and clumsily gyrated out of bed like some sort of impaired, four-legged spider. After staggering into her bathroom, nearly tripping over the dozens of bras scattering the tiled floor (only about half of which she technically paid for) Dusty began the ritual of all her mornings: splashing freezing water into her eyes as she screamed expletives at her past self. After abusing the sleep out of her eye sockets, she slid into the shower for a quick, introspective wash. As the showerhead blasted her sore back on pulse, and she roughly scrubbed the soles of her feet, Dusty idly wondered if the name “Head and Shoulders” was intended as an attack on her personally._ Who the hell could be fucked to buy more than one bottle of soap?_

She may have peed in the shower. 

It was around when she’d pulled her bleach-stained Spongebob shirt over her head that she heard the first series of knocks. Dusty ignored it, hoping the noise was the symptom of some undiagnosed schizophrenia and not anything she’d have to go outside for. She started looking for cereal, pretty sure she had some Frankenberry Crunch dust she could eat. More knocking. _Or maybe a brain tumor. Those can make you hear things, right?_ The knocking was now accompanied by muffled shouting. She could have googled if that was also a symptom of a malignant brain tumor, but she left her phone on her bed, which was technically a further walking distance than her front door._ Time to face the world, I guess. _

———

Even through the mesh screen she could gauge the level of annoyance on Liz’s face. Dusty unlocked the flimsy door and poked her head out to get a better measurement. Liz was glaring into Dusty’s soul, had her hands crossed, littered two gum stick wrappers on the deck, and was breathing loudly out her nose. So about a 6. She was also chewing very loudly. Liz had a long dark mohawk with purple highlights, with both sides of her hair cut short, and one of those eyebrows with those cuts in them that Dusty simultaneously hated and also found pretty hot. Liz’s eyes were a lighter shade of brown than her own, but Dusty’s eyes were almost black anywhere but under direct light. Liz wore ripped faded jeans long out of style, a blue-and-white varsity jacket for a school neither of them had ever heard of, and black combat boots. Dusty said this constantly, but Liz was such a butch she was practically a parody of herself. 

“Have I told you you’re such a butch that you’re a parody of yourself?” 

“I hate you,” Liz said, barring her gritted teeth, which oozed gum. “And you say that constantly. Why the fuck did you take so long? Roll off somebody I should know about? My gum even lost its flavor.” 

Dusty waved her hand dismissively. “Bullshit. You’re exaggerating. I’ve been watching you for at least fifteen seconds, and you haven’t blown a single bubble yet, meaning you just started those sticks, you oral-fixation freak.”

“What are you, the Sherlock Fucking Holmes of bubblegum? Are you gonna warn me my back is about to slip a disk from how my jaw is moving?” Liz said. “Have you memorized 150 different textures of ABC gum?” 

Dusty moved her gaze down. “Thanks for the wrappers by the way. My patio desperately needed more trash.”

Liz kept going. “Are we about to solve the mystery of The Sign of the FiveGum?” 

“Okay, you can stop now. Please.” 

“No, I have a couple more. I wasted three years of my life before failing to get an English degree — I’m gonna fucking get my money’s worth.” After pausing, and catching her breath, Liz finally managed to get a decent bubble out. 

Dusty stuck her finger out and popped it. 

Liz swatted at her hand, but just barely missed. She groaned, “Why are all my friends bitches or straight guys?” 

Dusty shrugged. “I’m not a straight bitch.” 

Liz smiled slightly. “That’s why you’re my favorite. Which is sad. At least you don’t send me 70-page-long PDFs at 3 AM.” 

“Again?” Dusty said, surprised. “Alice should realize that by boring us half-to-death she’s more likely to make us all fascists than prepared to die for glorious Marxist revolution. Lenin or Mao?”

“I think Shakur...? It was an excerpt, maybe. Back to you being a bitch, please tell me you’ve at least washed your hands today.” Liz said, looking into Dusty’s eyes, pleading. Almost hopeful. 

Almost. 

Dusty scratched her head, thinking of an answer. Taking too long to answer. “I took a shower?” 

“Did you rinse your hands after washing your feet and fucking asscrack?” 

“Anyway, you didn’t tell me why you were here,” Dusty said, changing the subject. Liz pretended to dry gag before spitting her gum out over the deck’s ledge. 

“The fuck do you mean? 4:30 is when we agreed to meet up. Wait, did you _just_ get up?”

“No,” Dusty lied. She peered up at the sky for the first time that day. Well, it did _seem_ like the sun was lowering. Liz noticed and shook her head. 

“Well, look, you didn’t miss much. All the gay aliens sang a musical number starring that weird nerd in the jacket. It was kinda annoying, if I’m being honest.” She pulled out another stick of gum from her pocket, unwrapping it quickly and idly tossing the wrapper aside to join its brethren at her feet. “Kinda catchy though, I’ll admit.”

“Ugh, they always fucking are. Hang on,” Dusty turned back inside, leaving the door open for Liz. “You said it’s 4:30, right? That’s _almost_ after five. I’m pre-gaming.” 

“How are you even alive?” Liz asked incredulously, following after and slamming the flimsy door behind herself. “And it’s, uh...” she pulled out her phone, “5:02 now. You’re just fucking late.”

“Well, even better. Now I don’t feel inappropriate.” Dusty opened the fridge door, initiating the ritual of staring vacantly upon its sparse contents in search of alcohol. 

"By the way," Liz began, walking into the kitchen and leaning against the nearest, moderately clean section of counter top. 

"Hm?" Dusty was only half-listening. 

"The Doves lost," Liz said, grinning.

Dusty froze, then groaned, slamming the fridge shut. She stormed past Liz and out of the house, muttering along the way, "Just fucking kill me already."

Liz nodded in satisfaction. It was still the most reliable way of getting Dusty to forget whatever it was she was doing at the time. 

————

The Fin wasn’t exactly a bar, per say. It was _technically_ an off-brand Red Lobster that served alcohol. But, it was preferable in selection and ambiance to the gas station that sold the two Four Loko flavors with unregulatedly high alcohol content. You know, the good shit. So, although pathetically tame by regular standards, the year-old establishment was a welcome change of pace to the normal vibe of Beach City, which had always been too unsettlingly TV-Y7 for Dusty’s liking. When her friends all got together but couldn’t be arsed to drive all the way to Charm City, this is where they went. 

What was so fascinating about The Fin to Dusty, though, was the rapid evolution of the establishment’s brand. Having started here fourteen months ago as a proud shameless dime-store crabshack rip-off, the restaurant had made a remarkable reinvention of itself since then. You could almost witness in the decor and general layout, the losing battle of will the earnest yet desperate owner had gone through. Though, by the moment it became evident that this intended family-friendly restaurant only attracted one specific clientele — buzzed out 20-somethings — the battle had already been lost. 

The dim yet warm chandelier light fixtures were pulled out, replaced with multi-colored stage lights and Christmas lights which tangled through the nails and staples which held them to the wall like ivy. Two whole rows of booths had been knocked out, replaced by a common area for mingling and grinding on strangers’ crotches, in front of what used to be the greeting/reservation area that had now been cleared out and filled by a structurally questionable stage for live performances and open-mic nights. The classic rock radio had been ditched for a 24-hour “lofi hip-hop beats to study to” livestream on Tubetube. Not the one with the girl from Wolf Children, cause that was copyright claimed. The one with the raccoon. 

This is what Dusty thought about while her three friends — Liz, Alice, and Tierra — argued about how far they should take the slogan “Eat the Rich.” She had to admit, though: a new, albeit limited supply of livestock with a fraction of the carbon footprint of pigs was a pragmatic proposal. Also, Alice was staring at her. 

“What do you think, Dusty? Should it be unrestrictedly cross-generational, or only include the elites’ children that are over 18?” She looked serious. 

“Uhhhh, well,” Dusty stalled. She didn’t really want to commit to a discussion about cannibalism. She wasn’t even really hungry at the moment, having filled up on the complimentary cheese biscuits — a remaining relic of a bygone era of crushed seafood dreams. “I think so, yes. I watched Snowpiercer last week, and that movie seemed to suggest baby meat tastes pretty good. I’m gonna side with the Pro-baby eating camp.” 

Alice slapped down on the table with both hands, before looking smugly over at Tierra, who, despite not listening, Dusty could only deduce was part of the anti-baby-eating brigade. _Cowards._ Tierra just rolled her eyes. “Yeah, see how far you get with that slogan: ‘Join the fight for worker freedom! We eat babies!’” 

“Hell, I’m ready to jump a cop as we speak for that,” Liz chimed in, sarcastically. Suddenly, Dusty saw something in the distance that made her perk up. 

“Are those brownies?” It was a man, walking around the common area, expertly dodging through swinging bodies, with a massive platter of what appeared to be brownies. 

Tierra, who was facing away from where Dusty was looking, turned her head around, to scan the crowd. “Uh, yeah, appears so. Why?” 

“Uh, why? Cause I’m tired of just being drunk?” Dusty said, giving Tierra a look like it should be obvious. 

“You don’t even know what’s in them. They’re probably just normal brownies.” Tierra turned her head back, and pointed out at the man, who was now holding the platter before a distant booth. “He’s wearing a restaurant uniform. Probably just free samples.” 

Dusty narrowed her eyes, analyzing the man, putting her brain on overdrive. “How can you say it’s a restaurant uniform? Doesn’t look that way to me.” 

“A polo and slacks? Seriously?” 

“He could just be a douchebag!” 

Tierra shook her head. “Your desperation has blinded you. Pathetic.” 

“Okay, anime villain,” Dusty said, standing up. “I’ll fucking see for myself.” 

————

The rest of their night out had gone uneventfully. Dusty discovered the only surprise waiting for her in the brownie she nabbed was diced pecans, and by her third drink Liz cut her off. She groaned about it and complained, but it actually made her feel a little good when someone did something for her that wasn’t hidden in twelve layers of irony. 

Liz had always hated it when she got shitfaced. 

As Dusty wandered to the outskirts of Beach City toward her beach house, nestled across the dunes from the water tower-thing, she thought about Liz. Thought about the drinking and partying that brought them together, the drinking and partying that they did together, and the drinking and more drinking (on Dusty’s part) that split them up. _Maybe we should get back together. I think she still loves me..._

Her gratitude to Liz gradually soured to bitterness as she kicked sand along the path to her house. When she was alone like this, in the quiet, she felt hollow. She usually at least had some warmth from a buzz or, better yet, blinding drunkenness to drown her insides out. Liz probably didn’t feel this way right now. Why the fuck did she have the right to decide what was best? _So glad_ she could glide home on those feelings of charity and responsibility, while Dusty dragged herself through a muck of shit and self-loathing._ That’s right. I almost forgot why we broke up. She’s a self-righteous cunt. _

She felt like punching something. She felt like punching some_one_. Could she effectively punch herself? She’d never tried that, actually. Should she go to therapy again? No, without a court order, seeing Dr Jackson just felt pathetic._ Maybe I can punch someone, get a court order, and then see Dr Jackson,_ Dusty mused to herself. But then, she didn’t want to risk not getting a court order and just being, you know, in jail. GoodWill Hunting made this look way easier._ Ugh, why couldn’t those fucking brownies have anything in them? _Dusty didn’t want to be in her house right now. The loneliness was somehow worse in a box. 

The shadow of her house fell on her immediately upon turning around the dune and seeing it, like it was already pulling her in, ready to suffocate her. It was actually stretched further than it normally was and... disconnected... from the shadow that actually stretched out from her house. And circular. What? Dusty looked up. 

“Oh shit.” 

Floating above her head by several dozen meters was a red, teardrop-shaped UFO, which hummed and stayed perfectly still in the air. It didn’t even bob. Weren’t UFOs supposed to bob? There was also a... shadow on top of the thing, that appeared to be pacing back and forth, quickly. Like it was impatient. It... turned towards her. _Oh shit. _

The shadow was very, um, spiky. _Yeah, that works for a first impression._ Though distant, Dusty could see that whatever this thing was was spindly and spiky. That couldn’t be good. Spiky things were usually bad. _Oh shit._

It bent down, leaning over the edge with its hands balled up into fists. It yelled, “HEY! ARE YOU STEVEN UNIVERSE?”

So, those brownies _did_ have something in them after all. 

_Oh shit. _


	2. LifeSaver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently trying to upload an intermission entitled "Chapter 2.5" overwrites chapter 2, and I hate this website. Had to reedit and everything for this chapter. Anyway, yeah, sorry.

Dusty’s mind was blank. “You mean, like, the guy that washes cars?” 

“WHAT?” the weird spiky figure screamed. 

“ISN’T THAT THE CAR WASH GUY?” 

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS!” 

“A CAR? A WASH? OR A GUY?” 

The figure was silent for a moment, contemplating. They yelled again, “WHAT?” 

_Uggghhh_. This was _not_ how Dusty had been hoping to get a headache tonight. 

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” Dusty screamed, her voice getting hoarse. Why the fuck were they UP SO HIGH? Were they just being dramatic? How were they gonna get down? Go back inside the ship, anticlimactically lower it a few dozen meters, then climb back out? That wasn’t dramatic at all. They’ve obviously been here a while — a fucking SPACESHIP on the _ground_ would have been just as intimidating. That’s what they were going for, right? 

“ARE. YOU. STEVEN. UNIVERSE?!” The spindly freak punctuated every word by slamming a massive fist on the domed ship beneath them. _Huh. Was that hand always that big? _

How did she answer? “No..?” she said uncertainly, and without shouting, cause her voice hurt at this point. Not uncertain of her answer but more uncertain about the, uh... Alien. Dusty had to strain to hear what was said next, but it sounded like the shadow was saying...

_“Perfect”? What? Oh, they’re jumping down now. _

“Jumping” is a word that describes... what someone _else _might do. No, what the shadow did was coil their arms into springs and launch themself off the ship. Right down in front of Dusty. 

_Okay. Well, it’s a girl. Know that now. Oh wait. I think all the crayon-colored aliens are chicks. Nevermind. Should have figured that out by now. _

The alien before her was pink. Very, very pink. Pink face, pink arms, pink feet. Pink spiked shoulder pads..?_ Okay, Vegeta._ Though, Dusty noticed a little variation in hue. Her hair and torso weren’t the same. Darker. _Fuck, what was the term? F.. Fu... Fusc... Oh right. _

Dark pink. 

Her hair stuck out into two long, prickly-looking pigtails. Her chest held in its center an inverted heart of extremely fine cut. The little light from the moon and stars played off each side and sliver, pale whites and shining pinks sliding around its surface like a disco ball. It was, of course, also pink. Now, her shoes were really interesting in tha— _HOLY FUCK SHE’S SWINGING! _

Dusty yelped and dodged ungracefully to the left, falling on her butt as a suddenly _much longer_ arm pistol-shot past her head. Her gaze darted back to the (apparently) homicidal rock alien, who was gritting her (apparently) sharp teeth and turbine-spinning another fist behind her back to launch at the now ass-sitting-on human. Dusty couldn’t get up in time. So, instead of trying in vain to dodge out of the way, she did what she usually did when she found herself confronted with an obstacle: she screamed expletives at the person nearest to her. Or rock. 

“Hey, Psycho Bitch!”_ Well, that stopped her for a second._ “I’m not Steve Universe or whoever the fuck you want to pop!” 

The alien fucking _growled_ at her, hair sticking up even further, like a pissed off cat’s tail. However, she reeled her fist back, and stopped spinning the other. She narrowed her eyes. “You look like him!” 

Dusty breathed a brief sigh of relief. She was still probably gonna die, but at least things seemed to be deescalating from a complete 11. Even if it was just to a 9. Just needed to keep talking. “What does he look like then? I swear to god if he’s Asian, then I was right and aliens_ can_ be fucking racist.” The alien looked slightly confused. Probably from what Dusty was saying. _Okay, maybe an 8 now._

“Your eyes—“ _oh well here we fucking go_—“and your hair are the same color!” 

_Wait, what? _

“Wait, what?” Dusty was so confused. Did this freak seriously attack her cause... “Anything else?”

The pink pugilist shook her head, slowly. Realization seemed to be creeping onto her face. _About 6 now. _

“_Anything_ else? Like, at all?”

She shook her head again, almost timidly this time, looking uncomfortably at her feet. After a few awkward seconds, she spoke, meekly, “He said he lived on a beach house around here so...” She kicked at a weed. “The video was pink, and glitchy...” 

_Is she... tearing up..?_ The alien collapsed to her knees and began beating the ground with one fist while she yanked on her pigtail with the other. “STUPID STUPID STUPID! Can’t do _anything_ right! No—“ 

Pound. 

“Injector! No—“ 

Pound. 

“Rejuvenator!” 

Pound. 

“CAN’T EVEN FIND THE RIGHT HUMAN!” 

Pound pound pound. 

Dusty didn’t really know why she decided to hug the limb-bending, violent rubber-hose reject. It definitely wasn’t an instinct thing. She didn’t feel _compelled_ to do so. It was probably a selfish action, honestly. She sorta just wanted the weirdo to stop having an emotional breakdown outside her house. Dusty approached slowly, squatting down right in front of the crying alien, out of reach (which, to be honest, Dusty couldn’t seem to accurately determine) of her swinging hands, but close enough for her to be noticed. The alien hesitated, a raised fist shaking in the air. Dusty took that opening to steadily nudge forward and slide her arms around her shaking chest. There was a moment of oppressive silence. Was this a bad idea? Would things just get worse? Did Dusty pee a tiny bit when she fell on her butt and just now realized it? 

Apparently, no, no, and maybe. 

It was like a tightly wound steel spring wilted into a wet noodle. Once raised, threatening arms fell loosely to the side. Hair that was just spiky and sticking up, softened and lowered, like someone let the air out of a balloon. A tense, quivering chest began to rise and fall more steadily. For a little while, both were quiet. 

Then, just as quickly, that wet noodle became a steel trap. Suddenly, Dusty could feel fingers clawing into her back, almost painful in how tightly the hands clenched to hold her. A face buried into her neck, now sobbing again, but harder than before. Not someone directing misery towards themselves, but like a floodgate of emotions had erupted out all at once. Every form of sadness spilled over each other, threatening to drown every last feeling out. Dusty tensed up as what felt like two snakes slithered under her arms and across her shoulder blades and over her chest, pressuring the body beneath it as if two anacondas were competing to crush the same victim. She was trapped. Completely unable to move as the threatening, unpredictable stranger attached to her held on like Dusty was the lifesaver outside a black hole. 

After what felt like an eternity (it was seriously half an hour at least) the grip began to loosen. Dusty had come to realize that the thing in front of her had practically cocooned her in a tight coil of arms. The grip, did not, however, go away entirely. Dusty was merely granted a foot between herself and her personified shackle. The alien was staring at her,_ intensely_. This was her first time noticing, but the pink weirdo’s eyes (which goes without saying — pink) were spiraled. 

_Huh. Like Soul Eater. _

It didn’t make the intense staring any more comforting. She looked like she was thinking, coming up with something to say. Almost opening her mouth several times but then deciding not to. Finally, she spoke. 

“I can’t go back.” 

“Okay.” She wouldn’t ask. 

“But,” the alien hesitated, “I have nowhere else to go...” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears again, her face still wet, tear trails glistening along the black lines running down her cheeks. Dusty _really_ hoped she didn’t start sobbing again. _Oh, it looks like she’s waiting for me. _

“Okay,” Dusty replied. A simple confirmation to continue. 

The alien looked very... self-conscious? _She straight up just tried to kill me. _

“Can I...?” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. 

_Oh no. _

Fresh fat tears welled up in her unnerving eyes. “Please..?” She just sounded...

Broken. 

Dusty really, really, really, really, really, really, really, _really, really, really, really, really _did not want to let this chick crash at her place. 

“Sure.” _Fuck._

She looked genuinely in awe. Her mouth was open a little, her eyes were wide. It looked like she never expected the answer “yes” in a thousand years. Then, the tears began to fall, but instead of down the mascara-like runways to her chin, their paths were broken by the utterly relieved smile that split her face. Dusty had never seen a smile like that. It was kinda crooked and it quivered, but it seemed like the purest expression of what a smile could mean that she’d ever seen. Everything that expression was meant to convey. Relief. Excitement. Security. Joy. Love...

_Woah. That was a weird feeling. _

_Aaaand she’s hugging me again. And crying. _

In that moment, all the crying stranger could think of was the overwhelming misery she felt, but also of something that cut through it all. It was small, and dim, but it was a light in an endless, pure dark abyss. She could see it for miles. For the first time, she had an expression, _given_ to her — outside her own self, her own assurances and denials — of a feeling she so desperately needed. 

Spinel felt hope. 

Dusty also thought stuff. 

_Am I misreading signals here, or am I about to get, like, laid? _

|  |   
---|---|---


	3. Boundaries

That night, Dusty didn’t get any sleep, either. Not because she wasn’t exhausted — she definitely was. She just had the distinct impression that if she slept, she’d be... 

Stared at. Because she would. Because she’d been stared at going up the dune to her front door._ Understandable. She’s following me after all._ She’d been stared at finding something for her new “guest” to drink._ What should I get her to drink? Does she even drink? And she’s right behind me, isn’t she?_ She’d been stared at while she cleaned off the couch for a place for them to sit. _Okay. This is getting a little creepy._ And lastly, after a second of privacy, the pastel stalker had poked her head in the door while Dusty was using the bathroom._ Aight. Okay. Fuck this. _

Dusty, after glaring daggers at the paradoxically intimidatable Peeping Tom, had them both sit down on the couch. She had to explain boundaries now to a until-recently violently disturbed space muppet. Who hugged her, weeping for half an hour; and, after being told she had a couch to crash on, subsequently spent the next fifteen minutes alternating between crying (more) and relieved giggling. While hugging Dusty. Dusty being there. Dusty being attached against her will to the bipolar boxing alien. Dusty not being somewhere else, removed from the intensely uncomfortable flood of emotions. 

Yep. Just had to talk to that fella about boundaries. _Dope. Okay, do I have her atten— yep, still staring. Cool. Just gotta figure out how to word this sensitively. _

“Hey,” Dusty said. 

“Y-Yes..?” _You can’t be shy while staring at someone, stupid. _

“That staring shit is creepy. Knock it off.” 

“O-Oh..” She deflated so fast Dusty half-expected to hear helium leak. 

_Well, I feel bad now,_ Dusty mused. _But at least only morally. I honestly expected this to go a lot wor— is she clenching a fist? DAMAGE CONTROL! DAMAGE CONTROL! _

“BUT— But! It’s okay!” Dusty waved her hands frantically. “I just wanted to let you know: humans have this thing called ‘boundaries,’ okay?” 

Her recovery seemed to have the intended effect, as the stranger’s hands went back to rubbing up and down her thighs. Which, Dusty didn’t really know if she had, since she didn’t appear to have joints, so segmenting her limbs into different sections seemed odd. Bad time to be analyzing her anatomy. 

She spoke again, back to sounding harmlessly nervous. “Humans don’t... Don’t look at each other..?” 

“We do! Just not all the time, you know? It can make people uncomfortable.” Dusty was way out of her depth. She wasn’t anywhere_ near _qualified to be acting as ambassador between the humans of Earth and a species of apparently hyper-advanced, sentient minerals. _That_ was the job for the eight-year-old and his magic teleporting lion that lived across the city beneath the giant Alien Shiva statue with a polycule of immortal lesbians. 

Dusty needed to move to a different state. 

“You got mad at me when I saw you sitting down before, right?” She sounded a little... hurt... but at least trying to make an effort, it seemed. 

Dusty scratched her head. “A little, yeah. That’s definitely a boundary area. Usually, I’d say you can look at people for a couple seconds at a time anywhere, but when humans are behind a closed door, specifically to sit down, your best bet is to never look at them.” 

“This is confusing...” She glanced down at her hands, which meant she wasn’t staring at Dusty, which was goo— ah, nope, staring again. “Can you explain the rules more? I promise I’ll do a good job once I understand.” 

Dusty shook her head. “It’s not really a game actu—“ _did her eye just twitch_— “allyeah! I’ll be sure to do my best. The rules are a little complicated at first, but just ask me if you’re unsure of anything.” 

She smiled slightly, seeming satisfied with Dusty’s reply. 

This would be a long night. 

———————

As Dusty explained some basic human etiquette, she also learned a little from Spinel on the gem side of things. 

Firstly, that her name was Spinel and the aliens were called “gems.” How did she learn Spinel’s name exactly? Here’s how:

_“Hey, what should I call you anyway?”_

_“Spinel.”_

_“That’s a kinda gay name but whatever.” _

She also learned interesting things about gems. Like, apparently, blinking was optional. They also didn’t need to drink, explaining Spinel’s confusion at what to do with her Bud Light. They also didn’t need to eat, ruining a great joke Dusty made about “another mouth to feed,” which was very funny in the moment, in a way that can’t be done justice in written form. That last fact astounded Dusty, as she can distinctly recall watching (and betting on) a short purple gem scarf down an entire All-You-Can-Eat buffet. She wondered if they pooped. Lastly — and this was a real riot — they didn’t need to sleep! And didn’t... didn’t know other species did! Or seem to care! 

Learning is fun! 

The longest period of time was spent debating hug time limits, which Spinel seemed to think should act as a dedicated period of the day. Dusty tried to lay out social etiquette in the simplest, most understandable way she knew how, and she began this with a proposal. She believed it would be quickly understood and they could then move on — Spinel was even taking notes, even if it was all ineligible to a non-gem. She hoped this would end soon, since the couch was just comfortable enough to nurse her tiredness but not in any way in which she could address it. 

“Okay, for most people, a hug should usually last about 2-3 seconds. If you’re very close and it’s been a while, you can extend this to 10 seconds tops, usually. But in this case it needs to be accompanied with some back patting, an occasional _slight _tightening of the grip,” she eyed Spinel warily, “and an exclamation like, ‘Wow, it’s been so long!’ Do you understand?” 

Spinel nodded, finishing up her quick scribbling. She raised a hand. “What’s the time limit for you?” She readied her pencil. 

“There isn’t one,” Dusty replied, flatly. 

Spinel perked up a lot at this. Her pigtails appeared lighter in shade and fluffier, the ends almost seemed to curl up lightly at the tips. She starting subtly bouncing in place. “So, you mean I can for as long as I want?” She was beaming. 

Dusty shrugged. “No, you just don’t hug me.” 

A pencil snapped. 

Just like that, it was as if a light switch had been flicked off just for Spinel. The color of her hair grew dim. Her eyes, which had been brightening up, darkened. Her pupils went from large, puppy-dog-eyed enthusiasm to intense pinpricks. Besides her hand, which had instantly pulped the pencil it held, Spinel didn’t move. Her face didn’t convey emotion at all. It was just blank. She didn’t appear to be looking at anything — off into a corner of the room, perhaps. She didn’t have to, Dusty got the message. Her entire aura had immediately inverted on itself fast enough to give her whiplash. This lasted fifteen seconds. Of complete silence. Except for Dusty’s heartbeat, which she could hear in her throat. She scooted back a bit on the couch, to be just a few inches further from the bubblegum time bomb seemed necessary. 

It came out almost as a whisper. As if she wasn’t quite speaking to anyone but herself yet. 

“_No_.” 

It sure felt like Dusty had something blocking her airway, because she had to fight to just get anything out. “W-What do you mean?” 

The pinpricked pupils _shot_ from where they were to catch Dusty’s own gaze before she could look away. She felt trapped now. Like if she looked away, she’d be giving the opening to a crouching predator. 

Again, spoken quietly, but now unmistakably intended to be heard: “No.” 

_Great. Three hours of the fucking innocent pupil routine, and I forget she’s a super-powered maniac. _

“Well,” Dusty spoke slowly, deliberating each word carefully, “those are the rules of the game, Spinel.” She really hoped that would work. Maybe bringing the language back to what Spinel seemed comfortable with would pacify her? 

Spinel was quiet for a moment. Thinking. Still, _burning_ her glare into Dusty’s eyes. “Those are the rules of the game?” she finally said, her voice unnervingly calm. 

Dusty sighed. “Yes, that’s the way the game needs to be played. Those are the rules.”

“_Then change them_.” 

Dusty took back what she just thought. The unnerving calm was dissipating in place of anger. She was losing. She couldn’t beat Spinel when it came to stubbornness it seemed, and she definitely couldn’t match her in intensity. She had to give ground, immediately. 

_Breathe in, then out. In, out. Repeat four times. She’s still staring, and now shaking, but just once more, breathe. _

“Well, you’re right!” Dusty clapped her hands, which didn’t get a reaction at all from Spinel. _Keep going._ “I hadn’t thought of that at all! That’s a great idea, Spinel. We can change the rules. On Earth, we decide the rules, after all.” She smiled, very, very fakely, but she was still pretty good at it. 

Spinel stopped shaking. Her pupils grew a smidgen. Nothing much, but an improvement. 

She spoke, still sounding mad but less intense, “Good. Thank you.” 

_Not gonna die. Great feeling. _“Yeah, so what do you think should be addressed? You seemed to... disagree with my conditions on hugging.”

Spinel nodded. Slowly. 

“Okay, well, uh...” Dusty thought for a second. The solution was simple. But it sucked. “Would you like it if we got rid of that rule, and made it so you could hug me?” 

Spinel nodded. Quickly. 

Dusty tried really hard not to look annoyed. Thankfully, mortal fear seemed to supplant that. “And so it is. You can now hug me, just like anyone else.”

“No.”

The words were calmly spoken this time. Not intense, but still firm. Spinel was deescalating, but this wasn’t going to be as painless as Dusty had hoped for. 

“A-And why’s that?” 

Spinel looked at her for a little while, eyes analyzing her features and sizing her up. Dusty felt very uncomfortable. “How long did we hug before?”

_Oh no._ “I think...”_ No, don’t try that. Lying would make it worse in the long run. Give her a low estimate._ “I think about half an hour?” 

Spinel nodded at this, looking down. Thinking intently again. “Okay. Howsa bout that, three times a day?” She looked back to Dusty, expectantly. 

It was fortunate that, at that moment, Dusty did not have any liquid in her mouth._ An hour and a fucking half? Per day? What’s she trying to do? Fuse to my skin?_ “That’s a little... long, don’t you think?” She had to play this casually. Outright refusal hadn’t worked too well last time. “Remember what we talked about with boundaries? People who don’t know each other that well usually don’t have that much physical contact.” 

Spinel seemed to be fine. She looked back down, that intent look back on her face. It seemed that tying this back to the other “rules” had worked out. She seemed to have arrived at whatever solution she found acceptable, cause she looked back at Dusty now. “What’s the most you’ll go for, for now?” 

Dusty really didn’t like that little “for now” clarification at the end, but decided to set it aside. “Maybe we could agree on three five minute hugs?” 

“How long is that?” 

“Five minutes? Like, a sixth of half an hour.”

Spinel shook her head. 

_Damn, I was banking on her not knowing basic mathematics. _“Okay, I’ll throw in another. So four times, five minutes, okay?” She smiled weakly at Spinel. _Please let this work_. 

It took a minute, more or less. Spinel watched the same corner in the wall, in silence. Dusty didn’t like where this was going... 

Suddenly, “Okay.” Spinel was smiling. 

_Thank you, Alien Shiva._

_Now for the shit that doesn’t really matter._ “Okay, then what about hugging other people? We probably shouldn’t try to move the goal posts too much, since— well, there’s this place called prison, that I haven’t explained yet, but I feel it’ll be importa—“ Spinel grabbed her hand, cutting her off. _Uhhhh._

“That’s okay! I don’t care about that part.” 

_What? _

Dusty gulped. “Why’s that..?” 

Spinel giggled. _Please no. _

“Why would I care if they’re not my_ best friend_?” 

_Fuck you, Alien Shiva. _

———————

Dusty collapsed on her bed just as the first rays of sunlight pierced the inky veil of the fateful night. After giving Spinel a quick explanation of what sleep was and asking her to stay anywhere but her bedroom, she stumbled through her door and into bed. She’d only managed to barely kick off one boot before losing consciousness. 

The house was quiet again, and after a moment, Spinel felt... back. She could feel it in the ceiling, which held her down like the stars. She could feel it in the carpet fibers, which brushed against her like the grass. Her feet felt itchy and constricted. When... When had she interlocked her fingers..? 

The world, space, was closing in on her. Spinel knew she couldn’t stare at Dusty while she slept — she didn’t want to lose the game. But... What would happen if she stayed here? She felt like she had almost lost it earlier. It took everything before in her power to just sit still, to not flip out and attack Dusty for _hurting her_. 

_But she didn’t mean to... it was just a boundary, like she said. I misunderstood. It’s fine._ She couldn’t hurt Dusty, they were best friends. So long as that remained true, she wouldn’t dare... 

So long as that remained true. 

_The air is itchy again._ Okay, losing the game was bad, but having an episode and hurting her best friend was worse. Maybe she wouldn’t even technically have to lose. Maybe it was one of those things where it’s only if you get caught... Yes, that _had_ to be it. That sounded _way_ more fun and like the games she was used to playing. Dusty even said she couldn’t see anything when she was at “sleep” anyway, so this would be easy. She just... couldn’t be alone right now. 

Spinel crept up to Dusty’s door slowly. The exhausted human had left it open a crack in her hurry. Thankfully, since Spinel was pretty sure she didn’t know how human doors worked. She just pushed this hinged divider lightly and it moved aside. Well, what Dusty told her was correct. She was certainly... immobile. 

Spinel felt some relief. She felt a little better now, just knowing she wasn’t technically alone anymore. But still... The silence of the house felt oppressive. And Dusty told her she couldn’t make any loud noise on her own while she was sleeping. It was a struggle to remain calm in the face of...

_What’s that sound?_

It was then that Spinel first heard noise coming from the unconscious body. A periodic, low, kinda weird noise. But noise all the same. She crept closer, and closer. And when she got as close as she dared, she noticed something else. When she wasn’t making the low noise, Dusty was making other, lighter noises too. With her nose. Huh. Did humans just make noise constantly, even when they were in stasis? 

Spinel smiled regardless, feeling the moments of anxiety fade more and more with each noise Dusty made. So long as she stayed around her, there would never be another quiet. 

_Golly, is there_ anything _my best friend can’t do for me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu
> 
> Might be making a blog for this story in the future. My bf is gonna be making some art for it and stuff. I'll post a link in the notes or something when it's ready.


	4. Kitchen Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Me: "Ugh, I hate when it takes forever for an author to upload a chapter and then it's super short anyway."
> 
> My clown ass now: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Dusty stirred awake to what sounded like a burglar, wearing squeaky toys for shoes, dashing out of her room. It wasn’t enough, thankfully — Dusty’s skills of denial were still subconsciously holding back acknowledgement of the events of the previous night. There wasn’t a mysterious, super-powered alien in her house, who had within the course of a handful of hours developed a dependency on Dusty that would involve lots of emotional outpouring and physical contact. Nope, it must be something else, less terrible. Maybe a murderous clown had snuck in. 

Though, it was kinda weird that she was wearing jeans and one boot to bed, without the addition of a hangover, granting her wayward body an alibi. But, she decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Exes had called her a dog sometimes, so she guessed she could go back to sleep too. 

Then she smelled something. It was faint, but for a little bit, the aroma smelled like food. It smelled kind of like eggs and toast, and overpowering it all, the smell of bacon. 

Then it all smelled like burning. Less faintly. 

Then she heard unmistakably _not_-murder-clown screaming. And panicking. Lots of “Oh no” and “Stop burning,_ please!_”

_Maybe I can ignore this_, Dusty wondered to herself. Her bed was soft, and she was in that position with the sun warming her back, but not too hot. 

_And there’s smoke entering my room. _

Dusty sprung out of bed, nearly tripping over a boot on the floor, and began hurriedly limping to her kitchen, one foot an inch higher than the other. There was more and more smoke the closer to the kitchen she got. Why didn’t she realize earlier? As Dusty sped past the living room, she remembered she usually kept the smoke detector under a pile of laundry, with the batteries out. A necessary sacrifice for her, um... 

Recreational activities. 

Weed. 

She reached the kitchen to find a pink jester screaming as she beat Dusty’s stovetop with a bathroom mat. The stovetop that was covered with burning towels. Which explained the smoke. Dusty swiftly hobbled past the hysterical firestarter, to the drawer under the sink. Swinging it open, she pulled out a dust-covered fire extinguisher, which she prayed wasn’t expired. She hadn’t really kept track of that kind of stuff. It sputtered. _This whole house thing was nice while it lasted._ Then, it sprayed the weird white shit that makes fire die. Miraculously, the fire, then died. And then the sprinkler started. 

Dusty dropped the extinguisher, which clanged loudly on the vinyl by her bare feet. She didn’t hear it. She felt surreally removed at that moment from her space, mainly focused on the feeling of the water hitting her head and sliding down her body. She looked over lazily to see her (apparently real) house guest on the floor in the corner, leaning on a trash can and hugging her legs to her chest, hyperventilating. Which struck Dusty as odd, since she’d assumed gems didn’t breathe at all. _Not a clown, I see._

Dusty kneeled down in front of Spinel, who was still having a panic attack. Well, she _tried_ kneeling at first, but her knees got sore quickly, so she switched to just plopping on her butt, both hands on the floor behind her for support. _Well, now my ass is soaked._ She snapped her fingers. Spinel looked over, a mixture of guilt and fear on her face. Whatever Dusty was about to say, she imagined the gem was dreading it. She’d keep things simple. 

“Explain.” She tried not to make her gaze too intimidating, but Spinel squirmed under it regardless. 

The gem inhaled. “I felt so bad for yelling at you and then trying to beat you up and then scaring you and then _almostmaybekillingyou_, and last night you explained food and eating to me, so I figured that I should do something to thank you because you’re _so nice_, so I decided to make you food to eat with your human mouth — specifically the thing you called ‘breakfast’ — but I didn’t know that _too much_ heat made the good things happening to the organic materials become bad things that make fire, so I tried to make that whole thing buzz off, but did you know most things on this planet are flammable?” She exhaled. 

Okay, breathing was probably just an aesthetic thing to gems._ Wait, what was that about almost killing..? _

The gem waited for a moment, for a response. For anything. _Fill the silence, fill the silence._ “S-So that’s the whole shebang...” 

Nothing. She couldn’t even see Dusty’s eyes, which were now covered by wet, drooping hair. 

Dusty needed a moment to process everything said, which meant she was processing a lot. Spinel, apparently, took her stunned silence in the worst way, and began shaking. Dusty didn’t want this shit so early in the... noon. She put her hand out, lightly grasping Spinel’s right shoulder spike thing. It felt very weird to the touch. Like, not fuzzy. But kinda smooth, like cashmere or something. Very firm too. _Ah, she’s staring — back on topic! _She brushed her sopping hair out of her face. 

“Do you...”

Spinel was prepared for this. She knew, inevitably, that it would come. There was that new, brief flicker of hope, but it had always existed within an infinite chasm of doubt and misery. She was gonna be alone again. Already ruining everything, her new best friend, her _only friend_, was gonna kick her out. _Pow. Blamo. Zilch. Get outta here. Was the room always this dark?_ All thoughts which occurred in a millisecond, before Dusty finished her sentence. 

“... wanna get some waffles? Like, for breakfast?” 

Spinel blinked. She was confused, enough that she forgot she didn’t need to blink. “You’re... not mad?” 

“You made the sprinkler go off,” Dusty said, pointing her thumb up at the ceiling. 

_So she is mad..._ Spinel thought to herself. 

“That’s the closest I’ve come to washing the dishes in weeks,” Dusty gave a small smile. “It could be argued that most things in my possession need to be lit on fire.” 

It started slowly. It began as a bit of relief, but then mixed with her finding what Dusty said actually really funny: Spinel started to chuckle, which became giggling, which became embarrassing giggling, which became full-on laughter. “I— I get it!” She laughed. “Because everything here smells so bad! That’s _really_ funny!” 

Dusty’s smile twitched a bit. “Haha, yeah, that’s the joke.“

“And there’s garbage everywhere!” 

“Well, it’s not all garbage...“ 

“And sometimes green slime oozes from the wal—“

“YES, WE ALL AGREE THAT THE JOKE WAS FUNNY!” Dusty yelled, interrupting the still-giggling Spinel. She wiped a tear from her eye, finally calming down. She still had a big, dumb grin on her face. Her dumb, pink, stupid, admittedly cute face. Though Dusty certainly wouldn’t admit it. 

“I haven’t laughed like that in... Well, I haven’t laughed _at all_ in a good six thousand years. I forgot how good it felt to laugh at a great joke.” Her pigtails were fluffy and curled up, sparkling a pink so vibrant it almost _glowed_. 

“Uh, come again?” Dusty asked. 

“I don’t even think I’ve heard a joke like that before.” 

“Can we roll back to that ‘six thousand years’ thing?” Dusty asked again, more intently. 

Spinel tilted her head a little. “Whaddya call that? Jokes that insult yourself?” She seemed genuinely curious. 

“Uh, self-deprecating humor?” Dusty said, uncertainly. She wasn’t one for genre-categorizing dumb jokes. Spinel apparently was. 

“We didn’t have anything like that on Homeworld.” 

Dusty gave a sarcastic smile. The sprinklers turned off, ending the cloudless rain. 

“Welcome to Earth.” 


	5. Chocolate Whipped Arcade

_Gonna be sick._ Melted chocolate chips. Whipped cream. Cherries. _Gonna puke._ Maple syrup. Blueberry syrup. Strawberry syrup. Apricot syrup? _Legit gonna fucking hurl._ Candied apple slices. Hot fudge. Two scoops of ice cream. _All over this sugary affront to God. _

Spinel sat across the booth from Dusty, hidden behind the monstrosity mound she’d conjured forth from the third circle of Hell. She could hear the gem’s engorgement from the other side, slowly wearing away at her side of the 28 ounce mountain of sucrose like a diabetic John Henry. They had attracted some eyeballs, some in awe, but most disgusted. Dusty was among the second group. “Uh, Spinel?”

It took a moment, but the sound of chewing and lip-smacking stopped. Spinel stretched her neck up, over the Leaning Tower of Waffle, a tendency the gem had which unsettled Dusty. “Mmmmfmmm?” She spoke through about six forkfuls of fried batter, chocolate and syrup smeared around her mouth. She looked like a pink chipmunk with her face so swollen. Everything was then swallowed all at once, horrifyingly. A massive lump of food slid down her thin, noodle throat like a snake swallowing a fat rat. 

_Gonna vomit._

“Yes?” Spinel asked. 

“Are you...”_ Hold it in, hold it in, god, hold it in._ “...feeling okay?” 

Spinel grinned, flashing Dusty with syrup-stained teeth. “Okay? I’m great! You were right! Waffles are soooo good!” She then frowned, slightly. “Whatta bout you? You ain’t eating.”

_Waffles are good? Only about 40 percent of that pile’s mass is waffles._ Dusty waved her hand, grimacing. “I’m good. Lost my appetite after the, um... second plate.” 

Spinel nodded and reeled in her head, resuming her seemingly endless breakfast. Dusty tried again. “I just meant, um, where is all the food going?”

From beyond the pile: “Whrat dfu yoo mrean?” 

“If you don’t...” _Best be blunt, I guess._ “If you don’t have a stomach.” 

Pause. The sounds of swallowing. Quiet. 

“What’s a stomach?”

—————

While holding Spinel’s pigtails, Dusty was reminded of a tricycle she once had. It was yellow with blue glitter, and had bright pink pom poms that sprouted out of the ends of the handles. The gem’s hair certainly wasn’t bright at the moment, currently a more muddy shade, but it was enough to trigger Dusty’s nostalgia. That was a good tricycle. Though, at the moment, she felt more like she was holding onto a motorcycle. Glitter tricycles were cool and all when she was six, but at twenty-three, she preferred imagining something a little more badass. 

Plus, the shaking from Spinel’s continuous stream of vomit into the dumpster behind Benny’s matched an engine hum pretty well. 

Oh, she was slowing down. 

“I take...” One last sputter of puke. “I take it back...” Spinel wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand, looking up at Dusty pathetically. “I don’t like waffles,” she whimpered. 

“Mhm, there there,” Dusty said, patting her spiky shoulder. She felt more at ease right now than she had all day. Holding a girl’s hair back as they hurled their guts out really put her back in her element. A mean joke occurred to her. 

“So... Wanna get some lunch?” Dusty asked. Spinel turned her head back around, quickly. 

_Wooow, even more puke. _

—————

After depositing her not-guts out, Spinel had to lean on Dusty for support as they made their way around the boardwalks of Beach City. She said she could barely walk, but Dusty suspected this was just a ploy to get more non-technical hug time in. Well, jokes on her: Dusty was counting the seconds in her head. 

Since all food forever was “off the table” — _hehe, that’s good, I should tell that one to Spinel_ — Dusty figured the arcade was the next best place. They would be able to do stuff without any of the additional motion sickness that precluded vomit. Plus, there were only, like, three places in the entire city. The walk was filled with melodramatic moaning and admittedly convincing knee-wobbling. Dusty just fake-smiled and waved awkwardly at the concerned citizens as they passed them by. They even walked past a large black-and-white gem that must have recognized Spinel’s predicament, cause after glancing at the two of them, she just smiled and shook her head. 

They finally reached the Arcade in record(ly slow) time, each step becoming heavier since about two blocks back when Spinel started dragging one of her feet behind them, and it had now extended by about sixty yards. Dusty felt like she did when she had to drag a vacuum cleaner around the house with its extension cord tugging on corners and furniture. After stopping before the entrance, Dusty watched in fascination as Spinel reeled her own leg in like a fishing line, or yellow measuring tape, or, again, the extension cord to her vacuum cleaner, that would get sucked back in with the push of a button. Her foot’s return started slow but picked up speed fast, until Dusty correctly felt the need to brace Spinel’s weight against her own as the snapping back into place shook the queasy gem’s balance. 

Dusty wondered how someone could be so threatening and such a baby at the same time. 

“Alright, we’re here, and we even made it before the season changed,” Dusty announced, sarcastically. 

Spinel just looked at her, slightly flushed and also confused. “What’s a season?”

“Right.” _Oh, so she only recognizes a joke when it’s about the sensitive matter of my wall slime?_ Dusty sighed. “Let’s just... We can get started with the traditional arcade cabinets and move you up to more advanced stuff as you get less pukey.” 

Spinel began, “What’s an arcade cabin—"

“Look,” Dusty interrupted, “you can just wait for me to show you, alright?” 

The gem shuddered for a moment, then nodded. 

Dusty almost apologized, but didn’t. She sighed, and waved Spinel over to the nearest game. “Okay, so this is where we should start. It’s just an arcade cabinet, so you don’t gotta move anything besides your hands, which you seem...” — Dusty realized Spinel had nonchalantly grabbed her hand again — “... capable with.” Spinel, noticing Dusty’s gaze, blushed and retracted her arm, hiding it behind her back. 

“An arcade cabinet just means a big ol’ box that you press buttons on until you either release your pent up aggression on some colorful lines of code, or ruin someone’s day for turtling or spamming projectiles,” Dusty explained. She slapped her hand on the side of the machine. “This game is called ‘Teens of Rage,’ so you should be able to relate immediately. It’s great cause it has both of those earlier things I mentioned.” 

Spinel bent her head, slightly. “Both of what?”

Dusty laughed. “Oh, you’ll see.”

—————

For the first twenty minutes, things were great. Dusty creamed the clingy noob again and again. At first, Spinel seemed thrilled to be playing anything with anyone at all. But as the minutes sped by and the losses stacked up, her grin faded to a smile, then bled into a pout. By the time of her eighth loss, Spinel was gritting her teeth. 

“What is that you _keep doing_?!” She yelled. 

“Turtling and projectile spamming,” Dusty said. 

“Well, knock it off! It’s cheap!” 

“It’s a legitimate strategy.”

That’s how things went for a while. But soon, things changed. Spinel lost again, but she wasn’t saying anything now. She wasn’t gritting her teeth or growling. She was focused and quiet. The next time, she almost won. The time after that, Dusty had to cheese the clock to win at all. Which only earned a huff from the other side of the cabinet. 

The time after that, Spinel executed a flawless victory. She used combos and finishers Dusty didn’t even know existed. When the announcer yelled “Perfection!” Dusty was confronted with a stretchy-necked, smirking pink face. 

“Yeah, well...” she muttered. 

“Yes?” Spinel asked, doe-eyed with false innocence. 

“My buttons were sticky that round.”

“A problem with your controls? How _awful_,” Spinel said, fake sincerity oozing from her words. “If you want, we can switch sides for the next round. How does that sound?” She grinned. 

_You pompous little... _“No, it’s fine! We can just move on to the next game.”

Spinel frowned slightly. “You _sure?_ Cause I’d hate if you didn’t get the proper chance to—“ 

“It’s FINE!” Dusty yelled. 

The pink gem smirked. “Well, if you’re okay with it, I am too!” 

_Don’t forget whose couch you’re not sleeping on, bitch. _

Next game was Skee Ball, which took Spinel two shots before she became incapable of missing. After that, Dusty watched her play _Road Killer_, which she beat the campaign for in fifteen minutes, a new record. Dusty made a mental note to never introduce the gem to the world of speedrunning. Every game she tried, she mastered almost instantly. If she ever made a mistake, she never made it again. A few minutes into watching (Dusty had given up on trying to compete with her at this point, a fact which had disappointed her pro e-sport friend) her play the newest Lonely Blade game, Dusty realized Spinel was counting frames. 

It only took about three hours for the two to exhaust nearly every single game at the arcade. All that was left was _Punch Buddy_, which Dusty avoided initially because she was expecting Spinel to throw more of her breakfast instead of a punch; and which she avoided later because she wanted to find one thing Spinel wasn’t exceptional at, and she’d already witnessed that punching wouldn’t be the best fit for that cause. 

“What about that one?” a now-chipper Spinel asked, pointing to the purple-and-orange boxing dummy. 

Dusty groaned._ I guess we can get this over with._ “That’s _Punch Buddy_. It’s like what you thought I was when we first met.” She caught Spinel’s cheeks blush slightly out of the corner of her eye. Dusty continued explaining, “You just hit it as hard as you can, and it measures your impact, and you get a rating. Pretty simple.” She checked her peripherals again, but they were empty. Dusty looked around. She spotted Spinel already waiting expectantly by the machine, looking back at her. 

“Look, it has a competitive mode!” She was bouncing up and down on her dumb, squeaky boots. 

“Yeah but, look, it’s not exactly gonna be a competition if you think about—“

Spinel interrupted Dusty by eagerly pushing the “Vs” button. 

_Fuck._

“Hehe,” the smug sociopath giggled. “You first!” 

Dusty sighed. It’s not that she was necessarily weak, but she was still a human, and she knew what she was up against. She took in a deep breath, in and out. Hopped up in place a few times, and drew her dominant hand back. She swung. 

“Ow! You hurt my feelings!” It wasn’t the first time Dusty had heard that particular line of dialogue, and she supposed it wouldn’t be the last. She moved her attention from the blue asshole’s rubber face down to the scoreboard. 

“A fifteen,” Dusty said, unenthusiastically. “How incredible.” The scoreboard turned back to zero, ready for the next turn. Dusty looked over, but she didn’t see Spinel beside her anymore. She felt... a fan? She turned around. Spinel was spinning her right arm behind her, like she had that first night on the beach, but somehow even faster now. It looked like she had a quivering pink disk hovering behind her back, growing in diameter with each rotation. 

“U-Um, Spinel...” Dusty stammered. 

Suddenly the fist shot out, faster than human eyes could follow. The pink halo behind her was replaced by a rapidly extending pink pole. Only, it was going backwards. As Dusty watched the steadily-shrinking fist disappear over the boardwalk’s edge, she thanked _fuck_ no one had been standing behind Spinel. Then, the instant her arm went taut, she grabbed her bicep (if she had one of those) with her other hand, yanking the long lasso back around. Dusty could see the end in the distance, just barely, though quickly approaching. The arm was reeling in as it bent around the beach’s horizon, and as it drew nearer, Dusty noticed something else. Spinel’s fist was becoming easier and easier to make out, but at a rate that didn’t match up with the speed of her arm’s return. It looked more like a balloon held to a line of string. It got closer and closer and... 

Dusty screamed, “WHY IS IT THE SIZE OF A BUS?” 

She leapt as far as she could from the doomed rubber boxer, and the instant before the deafening crash, she thought she could make out a bit of dialogue she’d never heard the game say before: “TELL MY WIFE, I’M SOR—“

——————

Spinel was confused, but happy nonetheless. Although she didn’t know exactly _why_ Dusty had decided to grab her hand and start running away from the “arcade,” you wouldn’t catch her complaining! It was a little hard to see through the dust and smoke that appeared after Spinel had taken her turn, but she kept her eyes on her best friend’s silhouette as they ran. She’d never played this before. It was kinda like playing tag and being It, except she was always winning! 

There was a lot of yelling happening behind them and many humans and even a handful of gems had started to crowd around the place they’d left behind, but she toned that all out. None of that mattered. She giggled. Dusty was holding her hand! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, plot stuff is actually gonna happen soon.


	6. Dusty is Indignant (Despite Maining Roy)

The two vandals stood side-by-side on the beach, far enough from the scene of their crime that the dim city lights could be mistaken for fireflies dancing about the salty air or the glittering sand under the glittering starlight. The one with lungs panted, bent over forwards, both hands on her knees — that one of her hands was still being clung to by her partner-in-crime was for the moment unnoticed. She might have drooled a little in her minute of exhausted mouth-breathing. 

Spinel stood to the side, grinning still, albeit a little confused at the ragged noises coming from her bestie. 

It took another minute or two, but Dusty finally evened out her breathing, and turned her head toward her destructive companion. She winced a little to see her there, beaming at her with such a large grin. 

“Okay, so, new plan,” Dusty began. “We’re gonna lay low for a bit, until the residents of Beach City, who are hopefully as dumb as they appear, forget both of our faces.” 

Spinel took a moment, thinking, rocking back and forth on her feet, the sand beneath her squeaking in harmony with her own chew toy frequency. She then nodded slowly. “Is this another game?” she asked. 

“Uh, sure. Here are the rules. Remember that thing I mentioned last night? Prison?” 

Dusty finally noticed the light squeezing of her hand, and quickly pried herself free from the pink fingers that had entangled with her own. Spinel pouted. 

——————

It could be said that the next week was easily the weirdest of Dusty’s life. Keeping Spinel inside had been easier than she’d anticipated: the gem seemed magnetically attached to Dusty wherever she went, and setting seemed to matter very little to her. Keeping Spinel occupied, on the other hand, had presented a few more challenges. She seemed to have a pathological intolerance towards silence of any kind. 

Dusty had left her alone holding a bowl of popcorn during a movie, but paused it so she could use the bathroom. When she’d come back, she found that Spinel had crushed her hands _through_ the bowl and linked them together. And she was spaced out, shivering and muttering to herself. So they both had to find ways to fill the air. Dusty played playlist after playlist, introducing Spinel to human genres of music. She liked electro swing, and old love songs. Like, really old. 

The time that wasn’t spent listening to music was just filled with talk. It was slow and awkward at first — Spinel not wanting to mess up and lose her friend, and Dusty not wanting to mess up and be fucking murdered. But soon conversation flowed more naturally, mainly filled with Spinel explaining Homeworld and gem culture, and Dusty explaining human and Earth stuff when it came up. Which was pretty often, actually.

_“No, my skin isn’t ‘crying’. It’s sweat.” _

_“No, we can’t play more video games. We can’t go back to the arcade, remember?” _

_“Yes, the sun rises every time.” _

_“No, I didn’t ‘poof’ and ‘reform’ because of my ‘skin tears’. This is called a ‘shirt’. I change them daily. Usually. Sometimes.” _

_“Pancakes are the same as waffles. I’m not buying you ten boxes.” _

_“No, you cannot wear the shirt I’m wearing _while_ I’m wearing it. It wouldn’t fit us both, that would be like chaining us up together.”_

_“. . .”_

_“I DON’T CARE IF THAT’S WHY YOU WANT TO!” _

As Dusty soon realized, Spinel really liked movies. Primarily romances, action and adventure, popcorn flicks, etc. Ironically, she didn’t seem to “get” any of the comedies Dusty showed her at first — turns out those relied on too much context that was foreign to her baby gem brain. 

They had brains, right? 

She loved slapstick though, since apparently schadenfreude was universal. They’d watch together, eating popcorn, both sitting on either couch, until eventually Spinel managed to inconspicuously slink her entire body over to Dusty’s side without her realizing it. No matter how much she protested, movie couch cuddling would not be taken under consideration as a form of hugging, and therefore could only be timed for as long as any movie lasted. Spinel coincidentally loved marathoning. 

Soon, Dusty found herself even further cornered. She walked into the living room one night, drawn by sounds she’d heard from the bathroom; and surprised to find that her house guest hadn’t been waiting outside the door, for once. Which, although momentarily pleasant, meant Spinel was up to something. Sure enough, she found her in the dark, huddled over on the floor, digging through her bin of... 

Dusty’s bin of video games. Spinel had segregated a small selection of games, neatly stacked to the side as she rummaged through the unorganized bin of cords, cartridges, and cases. At the time Dusty entered the room, she was in the middle of scanning the back of Golf Quest Mini, which after a moment of analyzing, she tossed back into the bin. _Can she even read?_ Eventually, Spinel noticed her. 

“Yo, Dusty! You didn’t say you had tiny cabinets at your... um... ‘House’!” 

_This dumbass did not seriously forget the word “house”! _

“Must have slipped my mind,” Dusty said, through gritted teeth. “What, uh, is up with the pile?” 

“Oh oh oh!” Spinel exclaimed, like a hyper child who just made a breakthrough in the science of not shitting their own pants, or something else that would be impressive for a child. Whatever, nevermind. She shifted around, so that she was now facing Dusty, and grabbed a game from the top of her carefully curated pile. She pointed at the symbols in the bottom corner. Two controllers. “I’ve picked out almost all the games which we can play together! That’s what this symbol means, right?” 

_Fucking dickshit._

———————

Seventeen wins later, and Spinel still wanted to keep playing Super Bash Sisters. It started like it always did: Dusty won the first _couple_ (as in literally two) games before her opponent gained Ultra Instinct and began obliterating her. She began to notice that Spinel would set new goals for herself. First, of course, beat Dusty at all. Then, beat Dusty without taking damage. Then, beat Dusty without taking any damage without breaking a combo each life (Dusty still didn’t think that was possible in Bash). _Then, _beat Dusty without taking any damage without breaking a combo in a minute. Fifty seconds. Forty. Thirty. 

When Dusty noticed this, she realized the game might never end, because Spinel didn’t think she’d _won_ yet. Not completely. And it’s not like Dusty could just quit. She’d look like a little bitch! She was trapped. And, besides...

Spinel seemed to be having fun. 

_Ugh. Okay. If this is gonna end, it’s gotta end my way. _

Another loss screen. Dusty wished her dumbass fighter would stop clapping. “Wow, you’re really good!” Dusty said, then to herself, bitterly, _For a Korby main._

Spinel beamed, brighter than the screen itself. “Thanks! You’re great too! You almost hit me that round! Nice dodging!” 

_Oh no, we’ve reached patronizing compliments. END HER! _

“Haha, I think I’ve just about broken my trigger buttons!” Dusty joked, pointing to the Z buttons on the back. Despite herself, Spinel giggled. _So you_ do _think I’m a joke, HUH?!_

“Hey! I just thought of something.” Dusty put out her best fake enthusiasm. 

“Hm? Whazzat?” 

“I keep them off by default, so it didn’t occur to me, but you’re not really getting the proper Bash Experience...” She smiled. Spinel’s head had tilted, her eyes wide. The bait was cast. Time to reel it in. “Without items on.” 

“Ooooooh!”

—————

Seven minutes. Seven _motherfucking_ minutes of fighting. Of dodging, blocking, fire flower-spewing, pocket monster-throwing, projectile juggling, edge guarding. And it was sort of paying off! Spinel and Dusty were tied, with one stock left each. Both were at deep red damage percentage. Dusty’s hands had never been sweatier. The controller felt slippery. Hey, could that count as a handicap? She didn’t know if hardlight projections could sweat. Besides, like, for expressive purpos— _DODGE HER ROCK SLAM!_

Dusty barely dodged a rock slam. 

She felt like she was about to lose it. There’s no way she could keep this up. Spinel didn’t even need to _blink_ for fuck’s sake! Maybe this would be fine. She got close. It wouldn’t be that much of a bitch move to call it quits once this match ended. 

And then it happened. A moment she’d been hoping for. An opening. 

A Super Bash orb appeared in the top of the screen. Under it, a tornado. Simultaneously. Could that even happen? _Gasp. Divine intervention._ But, oh no, Spinel was floating closer to the orb. Dusty’s loss of composure had cost her the high ground. Spinel had just started grabbing any item now as soon as possible, since every time she’d asked “What’s that do?” Dusty had responded with, “I’ll show you!” 

Dusty had to think fast. She gritted her teeth, forcing her brain into overdrive. _Okay brain cells, I know that there’s only, like, four of you left by now. But I need your help._ Nothing. Her brain stayed silent, besides her thinking. Which... Which Dusty supposed was sorta what her brain was— _NO! This is no time for introspection! It never is! Okay, listen brain, I know the two of us haven’t been the best of friends. You remind me of my childhood, I respond by trying to drown you. But, for the sake of us both... please... Grant me some help. For my honor, for your dignity! _

Nothing. 

_I... I’ll eat more broccoli! That’s a super food, right? The internet said so!_

Nada. 

Dusty groaned.

_If I win, I’ll celebrate with water, okay? _

Suddenly, Dusty had a lightbulb moment. She shoved her joystick to the left. As fast as her dumb avatar could sprint. She fake laughed. “Ahaha! I knew you’d go for that! Oldest noob move in the book.”

Spinel hesitated, hovering right before the orb instead of attacking it. She looked down towards where Dusty was running, and smiled, smugly to herself. _HA! She thinks I can’t see her smug asshole smile! _

Spinel then rock slammed downwards, into the item Dusty was sprinting towards, cutting her off, reaching it first. Successfully missing that lame old Super power-up and hitting the real prize. 

A tornado. 

Dusty screamed with laughter. 

——————

Game night was done. It ended in screeching laughter and wooing from Dusty, which was harmonized by grumbling and huffing from guest background performer, Spinel. Soon though, she started laughing with Dusty and celebrating with her. Which, weirdly, made Dusty feel even happier than the yelling and tantrum that she had gleefully imagined. After, they ate nachos and watched Chaplin while Dusty bragged about her amazing victory. 

“Can’t believe after all that I was able to beat you, huh? The Champion reigns supreme!” Dusty gloated, shoving a now-drooping tortilla chip into her mouth. 

“Is that another odd Human thing?” Spinel asked. 

“Hmmff?” 

“I didn’t realize eighteen was less than three here,” Spinel said. “Jee, I’ve got so much to learn!” She reached for the nachos. Dusty lightly smacked her hand, and pointed at her. 

“Hey, don’t get cocky!” She picked up a chip and thew it at Spinel, who stretched her neck to the left and caught it in her mouth. Dusty grimaced. “I wish you’d stop that shit. Reminds me of a snake.”

“I wish you could throw straight,” she shot back, along with bits of chip and salsa. 

“I regret teaching you that being a dick is funny.” 

“I learn by example.” 

“See, you keep doing it.” 

The two gradually finished their nachos and movie, and began cleaning up for bed. Well, Spinel cleaned up. Dusty said that cleaning interrupted her chakra, which Spinel didn’t understand and Dusty refused to explain. She only knew the word from Naruto, the popular spin-off prequel to Boruto; and she wasn’t about to introduce a pro gamer to anime and create an abomination. She’d read the spark notes to Frankenstein once. That shit didn’t end well. 

Dusty stretched out across the couch, letting her feet rest propped up top at an angle. She’d just started to doze off to the sound of running water and clinking plates, when she heard her phone buzz. She looked over at it, vibrating on the coffee table. She thought for a moment that she’d gotten a call. But it was just the group chat, which she hated a lot. She never responded enough, so she’d miss something and realize she was thirty messages behind. And the incessant buzzing. Dusty didn’t like the feeling that her phone was a bag of popcorn, but louder, and not even that tasty. She reached over and read the messages. Well, skimmed them. They were making plans for a meet-up. Usual place. Tomorrow night. 

[what about you, dusty? busy? i havent heard from you in like a week] - Tierra

[Six days.] - Alice 

[okay you dont know that I havent spoken to her since our last meetup] - Tierra

[Have you?] - Alice

[. . .]

[...]

[. . .]

[...]

[. . .]

[so dusty u coming?] - Tierra

[should I bring the weed? Do you got any money?] -Dusty

[thats not why im inviting yuo] - Tierra

[Yes.] - Alice [Yeah] - Liz

[youre both really mean] - Tierra 

[so I shouldn’t?] - Dusty

[. . .]

[...]

[. . .]

[...]

[. . .]

[anyway see you tomorrow!] - Tierra 

Tierra was a good friend. Dusty set her phone back down. She’d nearly forgot about Spinel, but then heard a plate shatter, followed by a meek “sorry!” from the kitchen, and remembered. She wondered what it’d be like to leave Spinel by herself for a few hours. How she’d hold up. What she might do. 

Then several images flashed through her mind. Many of them resembling heavy metal album covers, or war photos. She reached back for her phone.

[im bringing someone along if that’s alright.]

[im bringing her along even if it’s not so don’t be dicks about it] -Dusty

[thats fine] - Tierra

[Does she read?] - Alice

Liz didn’t say anything. 

Dusty, now unfortunately wide awake yet again, pulled herself up from the couch, and went to the kitchen to join Spinel, and celebrate her awesome victory with a beer. 


	7. Bar Buddies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna start adding songs at the end of some chapters now. Some will represent how Spinel feels during/at the end of a chapter, the other ones will be for Dusty. Spinel's will be old timey tunes, and Dusty's will generally be more modern.

This was awkward. Not a lot worse than Dusty was expecting, but not good either. They sat at their usual booth at The Fin, except Spinel was sitting at the end of the table, at a spare chair they’d pulled up without asking anyone first if that was okay. Dusty had sat down without thinking, and Liz had sat next to her. Tierra and Alice had sat on the other bench. Dusty was trapped in her booth. This felt like the buildup to some catastrophe. It would feel too weird to suggest everyone change seats now, as that would be, like, saying something about her and Spinel. Something that wasn’t true, but would be construed that way.

Spinel was staring at Liz. Spinel hadn’t said anything at all for the fifty minutes they’d been there, except a “hi, I’m spinel” that she had whispered at the beginning of the night. She just moved her gaze to whoever was talking. But her eyes always shifted back to Liz. 

Dusty felt like she was watching a disaster unfold that she couldn’t stop. She started wondering if there had been any mute people aboard the doomed ship, the Gargantuan. If they’d seen the iceberg approaching and couldn’t warn anyone. She felt kinda like that right now. She also wondered why the_ fuck_ Spinel didn’t say anything. Wasn’t she lonely or something? Wasn’t that her whole deal? She had even seemed bothered when Dusty asked her to hang out with her friends. First, excited to go out, but when Dusty clarified that it would be with other people, Spinel got this look on her face. Apprehension. 

But, things seemed hopeful at first! Spinel_ technically_ introduced herself, even smiled a little at some jokes they all made on their way in. She then became practically catatonic when they sat down, and Dusty sat down... Not next to her. It could be worse though. Spinel didn’t yet know who Liz was. Dusty would do everything in her power to keep it that way. 

“This is weird,” Alice said, suddenly breaking Dusty from her panicked thoughts. 

“What is?” Liz asked. 

“We’ve segregated ourselves. This booth for people who_ haven’t_ fucked Dusty. The rest of the table for people who have.” Alice laughed. 

At that moment, Dusty found herself very vividly imagining herself picking up the bread plate and smashing it over Alice’s head, cracking her skull and killing her instantly. 

Liz kicked Alice under the table. 

“Next time, think harder before you speak,” she barked. “Besides, I’m not even sure gems _can_ have sex.” Having said that, Liz cast a hesitant glare Dusty’s way. Dusty who, at that moment, true to her name, wished she could crumble away with the wind. 

“That might not necessarily be true,” Tierra added, tapping the table for everyone’s focus, cause she was one of those people that got irritated when the people she was talking to weren’t all looking right at her. “There’s this local legend, about some rock ‘n’ roll hobo that banged some space princess or whatever in the 90s.” 

“I thought nomadic musical hobos were more of a 70s phenomenon,” Alice said while rubbing her shin. 

Tierra shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t get the memo.” 

Dusty decided that keeping the conversation focused on touring perverts was probably better for her than where this discussion could return to. She spoke up. “Well, can we ask her about it? The cool alien princess, not the rockstar — I haven’t got my vaccinations yet and I don’t wanna get sick.” She reached for a biscuit. 

“Can’t,” Tierra said. “Apparently she’s gone. Stuck around for a bit but bounced when their kid was born. Must not have wanted to pay child support.” 

“Damn,” Dusty said, mouth full of biscuit. She swallowed. “The mom ditching the _dad_ with the baby? That’s kinda woke, if you think about it. What happened to the hybrid?” 

Tierra shook her head. “Let’s not use the word ‘hybrid’. I don’t want to be witness to the invention of a whole new kind of racism. And I think he became space Jesus or whatever. I forget his name.” 

“Steven Universe,” Spinel whispered. Dusty saw the glossy wood finish on the table top around Spinel’s fingers in thin spirals, suggesting she’d been dragging her fingers across her edge of the booth for the last minute or two. 

Dusty had gotten sidetracked and somehow forgot she was there. Spinel was staring at her now, very intensely. She looked like she was trying to figure something out, brow furrowed and all that. Surprisingly, she spoke again. 

“What’s ‘fucking’ mean? Dusty uses that word a lot. But now you’re all saying it to mean something...” 

Alice and Tierra both spit their drinks out in laughter. “I bet she does!” Tierra said, between coughs. Liz just glared at Dusty. 

“That _better_ not mean what I think it means,” she said, very angrily. “She _better_ have taught you fucking Gemlish or whatever, and you asked for consent with that.” 

Now it was time for Dusty to spit out her drink, not with laughter but shock. Also it was cranberry juice. Which was _not lame_ since she was currently trying to keep her guard up to avoid setting off the pink time bomb. 

“WE HAVEN’T FUCKED, ALRIGHT? She’s just crashing at my place, like I said! We’re, like, friends, okay?”

Spinel smiled. She liked that Dusty had said that they were friends out loud. 

“Just friends,” Dusty added. 

Spinel then frowned. What did “just" mean, exactly? 

Dusty groaned and rubbed at her temples. “Look, I’m tired, alright? I haven’t slept much this... week. So, I’m gonna take a shit, then the two of us are gonna fuck off.”

Tierra clicked her tongue. Alice winked. 

“_Not_ that kinda fucking off!”

———————

This was awkward. Spinel had gotten up from her chair with the human group when they rose, and had followed close to Dusty. But when Dusty reached one of the designated “boundary rooms,” she had to stop following. What was up with that? Was there just one of those things in every human building? She was fine just waiting outside by herself. She’d waited outside the one in Dusty’s house twenty-four times, and Dusty had come back for her every single time. She wanted to hug her right now, just thinking about that. But there was a door in the way. 

Oh, right, and she had to wait with the human “Liz.” She really didn’t want to. She didn’t think she liked Liz. No, that wasn’t true. She knew she didn’t. The other two humans had wandered off to dance, saying they liked the song being played at the moment. Liz was looking at her, which Spinel figured was fair since she had stared at her for quite a while back at the... The thing. The table with long chairs. 

“How do you feel about her?” 

_What was that?_ Oh, Liz was talking to her. “About who?” 

“Dusty. Do you see her as just a friend or is there something more?”

_Something more..? Why did humans keep using the word “just”?_ “Like, best friend?” 

Liz smiled and shook her head. “Like a crush.” She saw Spinels alarmed expression, and rushed to clarify. “Sorry, that doesn’t mean anything violent. I mean, like, love.” 

_Love?_ Spinel was only barely familiar with the word. There was a lot she didn’t know, even among gems. She wasn’t made needing to know much. She’d picked up a little bit from some of the movies she’d watched with Dusty, but they were very... confusing. 

Liz was still looking at her, expectantly. Spinel shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Jeez, okay, uh... Sorry that your first explanation of love is gonna come from someone a little buzzed.” Liz ran her hand through her hair, and looked up at the ceiling. It seemed like she was thinking hard. After a minute, she turned back to Spinel. “Love is like needing someone very badly. Needing to hear their voice, see their face. It’s wanting to be with them for way longer than you want to be around anyone else. It’s getting embarrassed around them at the stupidest things, and feeling emboldened just at the thought of them being there for you. It’s feeling like your whole world is centered around someone who isn’t even you, and being both grateful and terrified of it.”

Spinel looked back at her with stars in her eyes. She felt like everything she was feeling had been perfectly expressed, and by someone she’d only just met. So she believed her completely. 

“Yes! Yes, that’s how I feel about her! I’ve never felt that way about anyone. Well, I did once... B-But even that didn’t have some of the feelings I have now, so maybe it was different.”_ Huh. _Spinel had never thought so hard about her feelings before. Which was kinda weird since she was alone for thousands of years. But back then, thinking about how she felt seemed dangerous. Now, it felt like a good idea. “How did you know?” 

“Ah,” Liz looked around awkwardly. She then coughed, but in a way that didn’t sound like the coughing other humans did. Dusty had explained coughing and fake coughing for the purpose of expression. This sounded like fake coughing. “I wanted to talk to you about it, since I figure it’s best if she and I move on. But how I know is cause Dusty and I were in love for a bit.” 

_Oh._

_Neat. _

Spinel felt like punching Liz. She felt like punching Liz through the door to the Boundary Room, but then that would interrupt Dusty’s “alone time,” and she’d be mad at her. She really, _really_ wanted to though. She wondered how easily humans could break. If it was like shattering a gem. Spinel may have started shaking. Liz didn’t seem to notice, however, because she kept talking. 

“I’m telling you this now, because I think she’s in love with you too. And she deserves to be happy, even if she doesn’t seem to think so.” 

Spinel felt that Liz was probably her favorite human on Earth, besides Dusty, of course. If she made an official list, of her favorite humans, Liz would definitely take the number two spot. Spinel would shatter an Aquamarine for her. She was shaking now again, but for a different reason. She had to find out why Liz thought Dusty “loved” her. She had to play it cool. 

“S-S-S-So why d-do you think th-that, Liv?” She stammered. Her teeth were chattering now. Her knees wobbled. 

Liz chuckled. “It’s Liz, actually.”

“I s-s-said that.” She had totally said that. 

“Well, I know cause I know Dusty. It was pretty obvious. Normally Dusty pretends that she doesn’t care about anything, but all of tonight she just stared at you, with this adorably nervous look on her face. And the way she glared at Alice, it’s pretty clear she wanted to impress you. Or, at least, not be embarrassed in front of you.”

Spinel nodded. She wished she had her notepad, all of this information was vital. 

“But, there’s one single factor that proved it to me beyond a doubt.” 

Spinel leaned in. 

“She drank fucking cranberry juice. Normally, Dusty drinks like a goddamn _fish_—“ Another noun Spinel was unfamiliar with — “but tonight she drank cranberry juice. She makes _fun_ of people who drink cranberry juice. She’s almost always drinking...” Liz looked for the moment slightly melancholy. Though, as Spinel felt a bit guilty for in hindsight, she really wasn’t paying much mind to Liz’s feelings, and really just wanted her to keep talking. 

Liz held up her index finger. “She only has one exception. One occasion during which she never gets drunk.” This time, it was Liz who leaned in. She put her hand by Spinel’s head, and whispered. “First, second, and third dates.” She leaned back, looking for a reaction. Spinel didn’t really have one, besides the same intense curiosity as before. _Oh, right. Duh,_ Liz thought to herself. “‘Date’ sometimes means an outing you take with the person you love,” she explained. 

Spinel almost poofed. Coincidentally, at that same moment, Dusty shoved the door open, stepping out. “Aight, I’m done shitting. There was no toilet paper left though. Don’t ask what happened to my missing sock.” She looked at Spinel. “The fuck’s up with you? Do gems change color? You look like a tomato.” 

—————————

The group all said goodnight in the parking lot, which glistened with rainbow gas puddles. Weed might have been exchanged. When Tierra asked Dusty if she and Spinel wanted a drive home, Dusty declined, saying she needed to stretch her legs. Dusty saw Liz then wink and give a thumbs up to... 

Spinel? What, she goes to crap for a couple minutes and they’re friends now? That was weird. 

Not as weird as Spinel acted all the way back to the house, though. Normally she’d be keeping pace with Dusty. But right then she was walking slowly, lost in thought, lagging behind. Dusty had to occasionally stop walking completely and wait for Spinel to catch up. The fourth time this happened, Spinel looked up, and when she realized Dusty had stopped and waited for her, got this really giddy smile, and held up her hands to cover her face, which had somehow gotten even redder. Normally they’d be talking to each other. Or, at least, Spinel would be saying stuff. But the only noise she was making then was occasional giggling and mumbling to herself. Dusty tried asking what she was saying, but that only produced _more giggling._

Dusty actually missed Spinel asking her incessant questions. That was weird. But anything was preferable to the creepy shit she was pulling now. They were almost home, and Dusty didn’t want to be in a house with someone that looked like they were about to huff her hair while she slept. She needed to clear the air. 

“Why are you acting like a fucking weirdo?” Dusty asked. 

Spinel seemed to look everywhere but at Dusty, now that she’d been bluntly addressed. Her mouth would open, then close, then open again. It felt like she was trying to swallow a stack of waffles backwards. But still solid, unlike last time... She tried breathing exercises, the ones she saw Dusty do sometimes. She found that they actually helped somewhat in calming her down, even though Dusty had insisted more than once that she didn’t even need to breathe. She liked it. It was feeling the wind inside her body. It made her feel more like a part of this world. 

_So does she,_ Spinel thought, finally looking up at Dusty. She could see rays of moonlight get caught in the dark pools of Dusty’s eyes. They looked like stars in the black sky. For so long, Spinel felt cold when she looked up into the star-filled sky. But at that moment, reflected through Dusty, she felt warm. She knew she had to tell her how she felt. 

“Dusty, I need to tell you something,” Spinel began, eyes shifting back to the ground. “I think I—“ 

“Holy fuck,” Dusty interrupted. Spinel’s eyes darted back to her, panicked. But Dusty wasn’t looking at her at all. “How did I forget that there’s a goddamn space ship parked outside my house?” 

_I’ll tell her later,_ Spinel thought to herself, the temporary confidence she'd mustered having deflated in an instant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJcGi4-n_Yw


	8. Fickle Sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oop time for some actual plot development and foreshadowing, holy fuck

In life, everyone makes choices that can have a greater consequence than they expect in the moment. It’s only in hindsight that people can measure the weight of their decisions. The choices that show who they are. Or the choices that set them on a path, and end up defining them. The choices that save someone’s life. Or the choices that destroy their own — the life-shattering choices. 

Dusty made one of these choices in passing. And she definitely didn’t realize it at the time. 

She would soon. 

——————————

It was probably presumptuous to think so, as Dusty had only known her for just over a week now, but Spinel was acting really fucking weird. She’d chilled out for a bit at the end of their walk home, when Dusty had noticed the space ship — 

_“What’s this thing called anyway?”_

_“Its a ‘Roaming Eye,’ I think. Newer model Ruby sh—“_

_“Can I fly it?”_

_“You... probably shouldn’t.”_

_“. . .”_

_“Don’t kick it, please.” _

— but over the next few days it became more and more noticeable. First of all, there was that annoying blushing. She giggled a lot more at basically anything Dusty said. Also, Spinel seemed to be always looking at Dusty...

Okay, granted, she did that before.

Now though, Spinel would insist on watching cheesy romance movie after cheesy romance movie. Dusty even caught her _taking notes_ for a few of them. But, most annoyingly, when it came to games, Spinel was going _easy_ on her. And honestly, she’d rather the gem just kill her and wear her skin already, or whatever the fuck she was about to do. The worst part is that Spinel would still somehow win, almost by mistake. She almost even apologized once. She was a terrible liar. 

Dusty wasn’t dumb. She could see what was happening. She’d fucked up, and shown the impressionable, affection-desperate alien too many dumb movies, and now she was paying for it. She figured she should find a good time to breach the subject. Or maybe she’d just have her watch _Fangs of Love_ and ruin the concept of romance forever. 

——————————

Of course, Spinel knew that Dusty wasn’t exactly as affectionate as she herself was. Or rather, she didn’t initiate affectionate actions as much. Physically, at least. Dusty showed she cared in other ways! The things she said could knock Spinel over. Dusty had her own unique way of telling Spinel she loved her. Then there were the subtler actions she took. Dusty always seemed so excited to share things with Spinel, always ready to share experiences with her, always happy to joke with her. She made her feel included, in ways that...

Her_ former_ friend did not. 

That must have been why she felt different things for Dusty, more intense things. Dusty treated her like a... What was the word? 

“Hey, friendo?” Spinel said. 

“That’s lame, don’t call me that.” Dusty was trying to clear the campaign in a new game she’d gotten. _Skull Gals_. She was in the middle of a really tough fight. For her. _Definitely keeping that thought to myself. _

“I have a question.”

“Hm?” Dusty looked at her. She was fighting a gross shapeshifting monster thingy and she looked away from the screen, for Spinel! And she even got hit for it. She was probably gonna lose now. Though things hadn’t looked too good for her regardless. _Another Spinel-only thought. Filing that next to how _good _Dusty looks when she loses and gets frustrated. Hehehehe. Focus! _

“What are we called again?” 

“Uh, what?” Dusty turned the game off, turning her head over to the gem, expecting she’d have to give an explanation of something. “That’s sorta vague.”

“The word you use for someone, but it can be a gem or a human.” Spinel wondered if she was doing a good job of explaining. 

“People?” 

“Singular.”

“Person?”

“Yeah! Thanks!” Spinel grinned. 

Dusty stared at her for a sec, prompting a blush. “Is that... Is that it? I lost because of that? Uggghhh, Spinel...” 

She giggled. _Sure thing, Dusty. Where was my internal monologue again? Oh right. _Dusty treated her like a person. Even if she had some delusions about their gaming skills relative to each other. _Wait, I was going somewhere with this... Drat! I got distracted thinking about her again. Oh well. She’s starting the campaign over. Maybe I can remind her what her combos are this time. _

——————————

That night, Spinel tried sleep for the first time. It was recommended to her by Dusty, who wanted to share more experiences with her! She mentioned it while they were putting up Dusty’s console — an older one she called the Venus, or whatever. Dusty was about to shove it back into her large plastic bin, but Spinel had suggested (insisted) that they put it up properly, since she was the one who had to untangle everything every time they wanted to play something. When they’d finished, Dusty let out a big yawn, which inexplicably made Spinel yawn too. Which was weird since she’d never yawned in her thousands of years of existence. That gave Dusty the idea. 

So, despite not understanding the concept of sleep, and not finding it particularly appealing, she knew she had to give it a shot! 

——————————

That night, Dusty told Spinel to sleep because she figured it lowered her likelihood of being sniffed in her sleep by about sixty percent. She couldn’t rule out whether or not a gem could sleep-walk. Still, she had to give it a shot. 

——————————

The clock said 3:37 AM. Spinel didn’t remember exactly what that meant, but she knew it was very late. Or early, depending on what you had to do the next day. At least, that’s how Dusty explained it. She knew that staring at the clock, unblinking for the past hour wouldn’t help her fall asleep. But lying down with her eyes closed for two minutes hadn’t either. She’d tried everything, really. Sleep must not have been a gem thing. Maybe the couch didn’t function for this purpose. Maybe that was why Dusty slept on that other thing.

She tried staring at the ceiling instead. It was sorta worse. It didn’t glow even. The clock changed every once and awhile. She knew the ceiling didn’t, not like the walls, which were way more interesting. Though Dusty seemed self-conscious about them. 

She wondered what Dusty was doing right then. Could she see her, or would that be like losing? Was she losing now? Or was it like the secret game rules she’d come up with their first night? Regardless, she didn’t have to wonder for long. At that moment, while staring at the ceiling, contemplating staring at the wall, Spinel started to hear something in Dusty’s room. 

It was Dusty’s voice. But it sounded almost nothing like her. Spinel slinked out of couch and over to Dusty’s door. She put the side of her head against it, careful not to make a noise. It took a minute to hear anything at all, Dusty had just stoped talking. Finally, she heard her again. 

“Yes, ma’am. I- I understand.”

Pause.

“No, I’m not stuttering again. I’m just tired. It’s late here.”

Pause. 

“No, I’m not stuttering, _ma’am_.”

Pause. 

“No, no boyfriend. I told you, I don’t...”

There was a long pause this time. Spinel had to strain herself to hear what was next, because Dusty became even quieter. She sounded so different to her usual self. Like a gem of the same type but of a different cut. 

“I understand. I’m fine for money. Thank you. Goodnight, obasan.” 

It was silent again. Spinel guessed that the conversation was over and that Dusty was now alone. She must have been using a communicator of some sort. She wanted to see her right now. Dusty’s odd voice was worrying her. She appeared rough around the edges, but the smoothing out of that felt like it was done through sanding her down. Spinel braced herself, and opened the door. 

Dusty was sitting on her bed, with her back to the door. She was bent over. 

“Can I come in?” Spinel asked. 

Dusty said nothing. She may have shrugged. Spinel moved to the other end of the bed, and sat down on it. She didn’t know how, but Dusty looked smaller. She seemed to fold in on herself, like one of the colorful chairs set out on the beach. She just stayed on the edge of the bed, her back to Spinel, who watched the unsteady rise and fall of her shoulder blades. Dusty was shaking. 

“Who were you talking to?” Spinel asked. 

Dusty looked like she was about to turn her head, but decided not to. “How much did you hear?” Her voice sounded ragged now. 

Spinel considered lying, but didn't. “Not much. Maybe just the end of the conversation. I could only hear your half and you didn’t... Say as much, I guess.”

Dusty chuckled dryly. “That sounds about right.” 

“Who was that?” Spinel asked. She hoped she wasn’t pushing too much. She did that with Dusty sometimes. These were called ‘invisible boundaries.’ 

Dusty shook her head. “Don’t think space rocks have an equivalent.” Spinel struggled to remember all the intricacies of human social units. What were all the names again? 

“Your mom?”

Dusty flinched, and Spinel thought she had both guessed correctly and passed an invisible boundary. But then, Dusty shook her head again. “Close. Her sister. My aunt.” 

Spinel turned her head at this. “The armored little monster with the pincers?” 

“No, that’s...” Dusty paused. “That’s a pretty good description, actually.” She laughed. Spinel felt the dark in the room get pulled back like a sleeve, which is a thing she learned about yesterday. They went on shirts. Dusty’s breathing started to even. No more shaking. She turned around, and smiled at Spinel, who at that moment felt like her gem was gonna melt right out of her chest. 

_I love her sooo much. _

“Uh, thanks, by the way,” Dusty said, not quite meeting Spinel’s eyes. She was blushing slightly. 

_Hhhhhnnng_

Spinel had to keep composed. “Thanks for what?” she asked. Dusty moved her face down even more, trying to cover it up. 

“For... Ugh, for making me feel better, I guess.” 

Spinel giggled. “I didn’t know humans could change color! You look like a tomato.” She had no idea what that was. Dusty threw a pillow at her head. “It’s nothing!” Spinel said, easily dodging. “I’m just doing what I was made for.” Dusty looked up at her now.

“What does that mean?” she asked. 

“I’m surprised you don’t know this about gems,” Spinel said. Dusty just shrugged. “You know how there are different kinds of gems? Like some are the same kind?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“All gems are made with a purpose. A ruby protects, an amethyst fights, a pearl serves, aquamarines are really mean. We exist to fulfill that purpose. Mine is to be a best friend, to support and make someone happy!” Spinel was now bouncing lightly in place, grinning, thinking about how she was fulfilling her purpose. 

Dusty gave her a skeptical look. “Dude, you tried to fucking _kill me_ when we first met.” 

“W-Well...” Now Spinel blushed. She stopped bouncing. “Something kinda... Happened.” She stopped smiling too. 

“Like..?”

“Uh, the gem I was made for specifically, who I dedicated my existence to, left me to stand still in a flower garden for six thousand years. Then died. On purpose. To make a human.” Saying it out loud felt weird, compressing several millennia into a short summary. Dusty was giving her a weird look. Like someone just figuring out how to solve a puzzle. 

“That... Makes a lot of sense.” 

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, no. What you just said was the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard out loud in my life,” Dusty said, shaking her head. “But I guess in human terms, you were abandoned, and now have a fuckton of baggage.” 

“Uh, yes.” _What’s baggage?_

“And why you’re so clingy.”

“That’s why I’m so what?” 

“Don’t mention it,” Dusty said, quickly. 

“I don’t think that’s what that phrase means,” Spinel said, eyes narrowing.

“Uh, back to your fucked up backstory! Have you recognized any behaviors you have now, that you didn’t before you were, you know, abandoned for thousands of years? Any feelings?” 

Spinel tried to think. It was hard to pin down when certain feelings became normal, and almost impossible to remember what she used to be like. So she just decided to list everything she felt a lot. “I don’t like being alone.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.”

“I don’t like silence. I don’t— didn’t like the stars. Rotting plants give me anxiety. I don’t like being alone. I hate the dark. I think I hate Steven Universe. And I don’t like being alone.” There was more than that, but it all had do with Dusty. 

“That’s all just things you don’t like,” Dusty said. The next question was implied. 

“I like playing video games.” _With you._ “I like watching movies.” _With you._ “I like listening to music.” _Your music._ “I like the stars again.”_ Reflected in the space of your eyes._ “I like when you come back after you’ve left.” _I like you._

Dusty laughed. “Back from the bathroom, you mean?” 

Spinel huffed. “Back from the... uh,” she paused, thinking for a moment. “Back from the Dumb Room!” 

“Damn. Shit. Bathroom found dead in Miami.” Dusty shifted in bed. She moved from sitting on the edge to laying on her side, her head held in her right hand, facing Spinel. “So, uh, what are you thinking is the time-frame for when you’ll stop having to wait outside my bathroom door like it’s a fucking Ferris wheel?” 

“Hmmm,” Spinel stayed sitting on her edge, away from Dusty, but bent her neck backwards to look at Dusty upside down, earning a squeamish look from her. “I guess to even things out, six thousand years. Three thousand if you’re really nice,” she said, giggling. 

Dusty rolled her eyes. “Great, glad to know my descendants will one day live to pee in private.” 

That was a word Spinel hadn’t heard before. “What’s a descendant?”

“Oh, like someone from your family generations in the future, after you’ve died,” Dusty explained, casually. 

“Why would you be dead? Fall off a cliff or something?” Spinel laughed again, a little hesitantly. 

“With my luck, probably. Though if I’m lucky, just old age.” 

_Old age? What? _“I don’t think I understand.” Spinel wasn’t laughing at all now. She moved her head back to her shoulders. 

“Oh right! I forgot you guys just never age. Humans come with a timer. Eventually we just stop being alive. Our bodies weren’t made to last, I guess.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Guess I’ll tell anyone who outlives me to be your ‘best friend’ in my will or something.” Dusty yawned. 

Spinel didn’t say anything. Neither did Dusty, after that. Soon, she heard the steady sounds Dusty made when she slept. Spinel didn’t move, didn’t turn to look at her. She just stared at the wall. It looked darker. 

The sleeve had slid back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Roubg--s5E


	9. Better Than Nothing

Dusty had probably been sniffed in her sleep. She woke up with her head in Spinel’s lap, who was absently running gloved (were they her skin? An unsettling thought) fingers through her hair. She was looking down right at Dusty’s face, but in a sort of daze, since she didn’t react at all when Dusty woke up. Spinel didn’t look very happy, which was weird since she was certain they’d left things on a pretty good note last night. Although, she couldn’t remember the particulars of the last few minutes very well. But, Dusty felt good when she went to sleep, all things considered. Had she farted right after passing out or something? She only felt bad now that she was in this potentially precarious position. Still, Spinel’s lap was surprisingly comfortable. No bones will do that. 

Another unsettling thought. 

Dusty made eye contact with Spinel for a minute or two. Her eyes seemed empty. They just looked dark pink, faded without distinct pupils. Gems were fucking creepy sometimes. She didn’t respond to Dusty’s staring. _Guess I should make a noise or something. _

“Cough.” 

Spinel blinked, and her eyes widened. She finally _looked _at Dusty. Which was somehow less uncomfortable, for once. She smiled slightly, but it didn’t look very convincing. 

Dusty decided to lead. “Morning. That’s what it is, right? Morning? I usually sleep in till noon.” Dusty tried subtly to slide out of Spinel’s lap, but her fingers were still entangled in her hair, making that impossible. She returned Spinel’s fake smile. 

Spinel turned her head around, in a fucked up kind of 180 owl way, to look out the window. She twisted it back. “It doesn’t look too bright out.” 

Dusty peeked a bit herself, as much as she could, then nodded, as much as she could. “Looks like rain.” She waited. For a whole minute. Spinel didn’t say anything. “Aren’t you gonna ask?”

“Hm?”

“You’re supposed to ask me what rain is,” Dusty said, like it was obvious. Because it was. 

“Oh,” Spinel said, still not asking. 

_Uggghhhhh_. After that, Dusty gave Spinel a really good look, trying to figure out what was going on. It was weird. She’d expected Spinel to stand out on a cloudy day, but right now the normally pastel pink alien was almost gray. Muted pink, at least. A noodly chameleon. She looked like she was trying to fade into the lightless air. Her pigtails were drooped down, instead of their usual cartoonish buoyancy they now just hung by the side of her head like a human’s would. Spinel had handed in her clown badge for a mime license. 

“It’s water falling from the sky,” Dusty grumbled. 

Spinel just nodded. 

_For fuck’s saaaake_. 

———————————————————

Dusty had eventually pried herself up from gravity and Spinel’s embrace. Despite her melancholic behavior, as soon as she stood up from bed, Spinel rose as well, following Dusty by a few inches. If she looked closely enough, she suspected she’d find the soles of Spinel’s shoes/feet (more unsettling thoughts) sewn to her shadow with how closely the gem was following her. 

But it was less in the sort of endearing ‘lost puppy’ way Spinel usually had, and more in vibe with someone following a casket to its grave. Upon reaching the bathroom, things got even worse. Dusty turned to shoo her away, but Spinel just had this haunted, desperate look on her face, like she was being shut out of a shelter in the middle of a hurricane. Normally she’d lean against the wall opposite the door and wait. Today, after closing the door, she heard a light thud, and just knew Spinel had pressed her forehead against the bathroom door, waiting as close as she could physically get without breaking ‘the rules.’ 

She quickly finished her business, giving the doorknob a good jingle to let Spinel know to move out of the way. Dusty left the bathroom and was met with her roommate standing an almost too perfectly calculated distance from the door, so much so that she was amazed swinging it open hadn’t shaved her pink nose off. And she was shaking. Spiraled eyes scanned Dusty up and down, up and down, up and down. Each time she seemed to shake a little less, to calm down a little more. She didn’t smile though. 

Dusty realized that she missed her smile, a lot. Which was so lame. 

“Okay,” she pushed past Spinel, grabbing her hand and dragging her down the hall. “Fuck this.” She didn’t even turn around to gauge the depressed gem’s reaction, before she’d kicked the door open and pulled her outside. Dusty kept up the rapid pace, though soon Spinel managed to match her rhythm. As soon as she did, Dusty felt the pink hand constrict more tightly around her own. She turned around. Spinel was practically staring a hole through her head, biting her lower lip and pulling _hard_ on her pigtail with her free hand. She stopped as soon as she processed that Dusty was looking at her. 

Dusty’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

Spinel flinched. “Walking.”

“And?”

“Holding your hand?” she offered, smiling weakly. 

“Aight. I get it. It’s dumb bitch o’ clock.”

“W-Wha—“

“You drink all my dumb bitch juice while I was sleeping? You drink me under the table in stupidity?” 

“I... What does—“ 

“Give me your other hand,” Dusty demanded, interrupting the confused gem. 

Spinel went wide-eyed for a moment. Despite herself, her pigtails started to rise. “But you said that I’m not allowed to hold bo—“ 

“‘Bwut ywu swad that I’m nwot awowed to—‘ Are you gonna give me your fucking Minnie Mouse mitt or what?” 

Spinel almost objected out of the intensity of her mood, just as she almost immediately accepted out of reflex. She was in a conundrum. Dusty smiled a little at her, dropping the angry facade. Spinel was no longer in a conundrum. She reached out and grabbed Dusty’s other hand. Dusty immediately went back to scowling, pretending the momentary slip of encouragement had never happened. 

“Yeah, you eat my food, use my electricity, so you _better_ listen.” As soon as Dusty turned away, Spinel found herself blushing and smiling. Which just made the remembering harder. She’d looked some things up while Dusty slept. Most probably, they only had approximately an estimated 1,545,264,000 seconds left with each other. All these moments just made that deadline hurt worse. It didn’t make sense. Why would something even exist if it just had to end? Why were humans so stupid? Why wasn’t Dusty bothered by it? Was that what it meant to live on Earth, wait around until you die? That’s what happened to Pink. 

_That’s what happened to Pink..._

Spinel clenched her fists, glaring at the back of Dusty’s head, hateful towards her impermanence.

_I won’t let it happen again. I can’t. _

Spinel was so stuck in her own head she didn’t even realize Dusty had stopped walking, and bumped into her. “Ah, sorry!”

Dusty let go of one of her hands, and shook a fist dramatically at Spinel. She looked around, taking in her surroundings for the first time since leaving the beach house. They were standing in a section of the boardwalk she’d never been to before, mainly in that it was the middle of town, and not the boardwalk at all. Finally, she asked, “Where are we?”

“You remember the Big Donut?” Dusty asked, pointing to a building in front of them that was definitely not the Big Donut. 

Spinel nodded. They’d gone there twice, she liked the food a lot. Not to mention Dusty’s house was filled with empty BD takeout bags. 

“Yeah, well, this is basically that but gentrified,” Dusty said. Spinel had no idea what that meant, but nodded anyway. 

“Spinel, I know you have no idea what that means, and are just nodding anyway.”

_Busted._

Another voice spoke up, kinda nasally sounding. “How many times have I asked you not to say that about my bakery?” The voice was coming from the front door, which was half-opened. A human wearing an apron was leaning out. They had poofy hair only in the middle of their head, and weird ears that were super big with glossy muffins stuffed in. Which was peculiar, since Spinel figured muffins were just for eating. Also, she was just beating around the bush at this point. The weirdo was pink. Frickin’ _pink_. PINK!

“You can’t just call everything slightly-more-expense ‘gentrified’! A donut here is 30 cents more expensive than at the Big Donut and 10 cents cheaper than the gas station!” The human whined. 

“Hehe, you memorized the prices,” Dusty said, chuckling. “For the record, I haven’t said it _on premise_ for over a year now. Now it’s usually on the Internet.”

“Until now,” the pink human said dryly. 

_Why is he fucking pink?!_

“Until now, yeah,” Dusty smiled. “Oooh, is that apple fritter I smell?” She interrupted Spinel’s increasingly hysterical train of thought by pulling her lightly towards the _pink_ human, who sighed and ducked back into their shop. “C’mon,” she said. “You’ll love the turon.” Dusty let go of her hands and rushed forward, swinging the glass door open to the chime of a bell. Losing her grip of Dusty’s hand, Spinel was about to hop right back onto that spiraling train, were she not suddenly overwhelmed by the aroma of sugary pastries and baked goods. She quickly followed after Dusty, reaching the door with two extended steps and sliding in right as it began to shut. 

————————————

Dusty watched Spinel lick brown sugar from her fingers as they walked back home through Beach City. They strolled past the “downtown” center, if you could even afford to segregate a town with, like, fourteen streets. She walked past knick knack shops that sold state spoons and seashell plates. It was kinda nice being in this part of town again, talking to people. No one seemed mad, no one brought anything up. They were just... Nice. _Can’t relax too much though,_ she thought, eyes stuck on Spinel. She’d been super weird all day, but at least now she seemed to be closer to normal. 

Spinel’s version of normal, at least. 

She stopped licking her glove-hand things, and turned her head, meeting Dusty’s gaze for the first time in a hot second. The next words to come out of her mouth seemed very mundane, which made Dusty lower her guard. Which in hindsight was a very big mistake. 

“I didn’t know humans came in pink.” 

Dusty shrugged. “We don’t. Lars is a special case.”

“Lars...” Spinel repeated the name back to herself. Forgetting momentarily that human names indicated nothing about their owner. “How is he different?” 

“Ah, well, I usually stay out of local politics, but it was pretty hard to ignore. For a bit, a bunch of residents from town went missing, including Lars. Blah blah blah, some alien Sparkling Gems stuff later and Lars is taken into space. With Steven...” Dusty trailed off. 

“...Universe,” Spinel finished. 

“Yeah,” Dusty said, nodding slightly. “Him. You’ll find most weird things that happen relate to him in some way. Anyway, Lars comes back in a few months... I think. I didn’t have the best lock on time back then. I was going through a ‘rough patch’, as Liz called it. But, regardless, he comes back, pink all of a sudden, wearing some dweeb cosplay and hanging out with a bunch of aliens.”

"The ones back at the building?"

"Those be the ones."

Spinel was quiet for a moment, thinking. She'd been surprised to see so many gems working as part of a human enterprise. More shocked by how every single one of the gems there were _wrong _in some way. Well, it was wrong to say "every single one," since there was that _thing _that wasn't a single gem at all, and was wrong in so many ways Spinel didn't even want to think about it. Earth was very strange. What was she thinking about again? Oh, right.

The _pink _human. 

Spinel shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. How did he get pink?” 

“Oh, yeah. Forgot. He died or something while in space. Told me Steven cried on him and his weird magical powers brought him back to life.” Dusty shrugged again. She reached into their BD bag and popped a donut hole into her mouth. 

Spinel was very curious now, it seemed. Every time Dusty stopped talking she got this cute frustrated look on her face. Cute, like, relatively. Cute for a loser. Not cute at all, actually. Nevermind. 

"That's... Odd," Spinel said.

Dusty laughed. "I know, right? Crying like that? Over _Lars? _What a little bitch."

“So, he’s not a normal human anymore, you could say?” Spinel asked. 

“Uhhh, he’s like the pink lion, I guess. His hair is a portal to a pocket dimension, he doesn’t need to eat food, he doesn’t need to breathe, I think I saw him standing on top the surface of a kiddy pool once, he’s immortal, he can fit five hotdogs in his mouth...” 

“Wait, _What?!”_ Spinel yelled, a weird, intense look in her eyes. That was odd. Dusty hadn’t noticed rings in her eyes for a while. They'd disappeared after leaving the house, but they were back now. 

Dusty turned her head, confused. “What? Oh! Right, yeah. I guess the hotdog thing doesn’t have anything to do with being resurrected, huh?” 

Spinel almost growled, “The _other_ thing!” 

_What did I say that was interesting?_ Dusty thought to herself. _Ohhh. I guess that’s the weirdest one. _

“Pocket dimension hairdo?” 

“No.”

“Standing on water?”

“_No._”

“Immortality?”

“Yes! Yes, what does that mean? I know what mortality means...”_ Unfortunately_, Spinel thought. 

“Oh, it’s the opposite. So, never dying. Like a gem, I guess. Although, I think Lars said something about a few thousand years? So I guess not _as long_ as a gem.” Right at that moment, just as Dusty had mentioned earlier, tiny droplets of water began to fall from the sky. Spinel felt them pitter patter then leak down her head, but at that moment she was only partially conscious to the sensation. Dusty groaned and stuffed the donut bag under her shirt, before jogging forward. “I didn’t spend nine fucking dollars just to eat soggy donuts!” 

Spinel huffed in frustration, watching the frail human stumble across the slick wood boards. But, she tried to be more objective: something _was _better than nothing after all. She wondered where she'd heard that from. Couldn't have been Dusty -- definitely didn't sound like something she'd say. Maybe it was one of the fourteen romantic comedies they'd watched together. She muttered to herself, far too quietly for Dusty to hear.

“It’ll do for now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated more than oxygen.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sySlY1XKlhM


	10. Beach Spill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am morally obligated to direct reader's attention to a new tag I've added for violent content. If the content of the tag is triggering to you, either please stop reading, or read ahead carefully. 
> 
> For the rest of ya that aren't bothered by that, uh....
> 
> Don't worry about it! And just forget you ever read this note.

The weekend began with laughter. Dusty was pulled from sleep by the sounds of snickering and profanity leaking through the walls. After getting up, she might check if that was all that was leaking through the walls. But for the moment, she laid in a tangle of bedsheets like a stick stuck in a cotton candy machine, desperately trying to groan herself back to sleep against the cacophony outside her room. 

It didn’t work. As she struggled to pull herself free from the knot of covers, she felt a pang of pity for Spinel, who’d been forced to untangle every electric cord Dusty owned twice or more. Then she heard Spinel howl with laughter again, and the pity was gone._ I miss when she was depressed_, she thought. It had been five days since Spinel’s brief emo phase. Now, not only was she acting cheerier, she seemed to have actually made some progress: going out by herself two, three, occasionally four times a day. Which was fantastic news to Dusty, who had begun to worry she’d spend the rest of her life babying the alien equivalent of a basement gamer. 

She’d started checking the local news for reports of missing persons and homicides by the third day. But nobody had died yet! So that was reassuring. Or, Spinel was untraceable. Which was unsettling. She’d asked Spinel where she was going several times, but each time she did Spinel would brush her off or lie about “groceries.” 

Dusty hoped it was just the pink gem being quirky. Or, at worst, the buildup to a misguided but otherwise harmless display of affection. Shit, she really needed to talk to Spinel about that. More loud laughter. Time to get up. Getting up when you don’t explicitly have to, but know you really just should, is the worst feeling in the world. Dusty peeled herself from bed gradually, with several mumbled expletives, like she was peeling a bandage from raw flesh. She technically didn’t have any clean clothes, so she just picked whatever was most odorless. She didn’t worry too much about pants. 

Spinel was found in the living room, playing an FPS game with the headset plugged in. But even with it plugged in, Dusty could hear the butthurt that leaked through from the other side. Every insult, accusation of hacking, pathetic excuse of lag seemed to tickle the hell out of Spinel. 

“Aw, your controller messed up again, XSniperzX? You should really look into a replacement, that’s the seventh time this round!” Spinel cackled while kicking her feet in the air, which didn’t seem to stop her from getting an impressive long-range kill. Dusty hadn’t expected her to be such a conceited winner, and it made her reassess the gem’s supposedly sincere compliments when they played against each other. 

“Sup, Noodle,” Dusty said, waving as she made her way to the kitchen. She heard a giggle, and it might’ve just been her imagination, but she thought she saw Spinel blushing in her peripheral. 

_Ah fuck_, Dusty thought as she poured herself a bowl of cereal dust. _Gotta stop using affectionate nicknames. Not making my problem any easier._ She added milk and mixed up her Berry crunch-flavored porridge as she headed to the couch. Another poor player fell to the alien’s shuriken. Dusty plopped down on the chair beside Spinel, wary of her currently-butterflying legs. Beyond that, Dusty noticed something. 

“Are you playing against... Grand Master ranks?” 

Spinel spared her a quick glance. “Is that what that’s called? The shiny medal things?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, well it’s shinier now! The one for your... uh... thingy?”

“Account?” Dusty offered. 

“Yeah! The one for your account wasn’t shiny when I started, but it is now. That’s good, right?” Spinel deflected a sniper bullet back into the sender’s skull. Dusty wanted to crawl back into bed. 

“Nope. It’s actually really bad, and means you’re bad at the game. The less-shiny, shittier looking medals are actually the best ones. Pro-tip.” Dusty wondered to herself why her cereal tasted so salty. 

Spinel smirked. “Whatever you say, roomy.” 

“Yeah, so thanks for ruining my rank,” Dusty said, before sticking her tongue out at the pro-gamer nerd jerk sitting next to her. 

“Watch this,” Spinel said, giving a little wink. She double jumped over the enemy tank’s head, activating her ultimate at her peak, aiming down with lightning speed and slashing with her glowing katana once, which cut through a chunk of the tank’s already depleting health, bringing him to about halfway. She then dashed through him to the ground, cutting down a healer who’d sought safety behind the tank’s shield, then turned and double jumped out of the way of a hammer swing, before dashing again through him and two other players, all of whom died in that instant. 

The announcer called out, “Quadruple kill!” 

“Yeah, well, clearly you fucked with my sensitivity so...” Dusty began, before being interrupted by the announcer then proclaiming, “Team kill!” 

Dusty rolled her eyes. “You only killed four, to be fair.” To which Spinel shook her head. 

“I got the first as you were sitting down. The second during your very informative explanation of ranking. And, hehe, _you saw_ the last four.” Spinel grinned, an evil glint shining in her eye. 

Dusty sat a moment in silence. Then, she moved her bowl to the side and stood up. “Oh yeah? Well, you don’t even _have_ ears!” She grabbed the headset from Spinel’s head and threw it across the room, which made the pink jackass laugh harder than any vulgarities that had been emitted from the potentially destroyed hardware. 

After winning her game and calming down, Spinel got up and began the process of returning discs to boxes, cords to controllers, and consoles to cardboard. Which Dusty begrudgingly joined, since just watching felt more demeaning at this point, somehow. Spinel liked switching between different kinds of games rapidly, so whenever Dusty managed to wake up on time to actually see the unorganized living room, it was like bearing witness to the aftermath of a party with all the various controllers and game boxes strewn about. 

“So,” Dusty said as she wrapped a controller with its cord for the eighth time. “Any plans for today? Going out again?” 

Spinel gave an affirmative “mhm” as she slid the last game box into the shelf. 

“Better not be ‘to the grocery store’ again. I’ve already given up on making it through the eight gallons of milk filling the fridge.” Dusty shook her head and laughed. “Who even uses ‘getting some milk’ as an excuse anymore? Who are you, my dad?” 

_Hahahahaha, ahhhh. I’m sad now._

Spinel gave Dusty a weird look. A mix of confusion and concern, like she didn’t know _exactly _what Dusty was joking about, but if she did she’d probably groan. “No, silly. We’re going to the beach!” 

“What?” This was new. 

“The beach! Saturday Funday!” Spinel almost posed. There was a console in her hand, so she couldn’t quite manage it in the moment though. 

“I think you mean, ‘Sunday Funday’.” 

“Saturday Sunday?”

“No, Sunday Funday. It’s a dumb expression or whatever.” 

“Sunday Sunday?” 

“I don’t want to go anymore,” Dusty said, grimacing. Spinel was still figuring out the days of the week, and evidently had some room for improvement. 

Spinel got a pleading look on her face. “But you’ve gotta!” 

“Nah, no thanks. The mood has been murdered.” Dusty was just joking, of course. It had been some time since Spinel’s last freakout and she was wondering if she could push just a bit with some humor. 

Spinel’s pigtails were lowering as color drained from her everything. She was looking right down at her feet, so Dusty couldn’t see her eyes. But she could tell from her voice. “I want to go to the beach with you. I won’t go alone.” 

Dusty had pushed too far. She put her hands out, unsure if Spinel was looking but hopeful the peaceful gesture would be communicated. “Joking! Just joking! I got nothing against going to the beach. I kinda live on one, after all.” 

Instantly, Spinel’s color brightened and her hair shot up, like a living flame. She’d put the console down earlier, so this time her Sailor Moon pose went unimpeded. “Yaaaay!” 

——————————————

“Fuzzy sand blankets?”

“Got two towels, yes.”

“Carbon dioxide bubble?”

“One beach ball, accounted for.” 

“Yellow-star-hating skin gel?”

“Sunscreen? Check.” 

“Rubber donut?”

“Inflatable pool ring, yep.” 

“Confetti?”

“Confe— No, we don’t need confetti.” 

“...Some confetti just in case.” 

———————————————

The sun was shining, there was a cool breeze, Spinel was moonwalking to the beach like a jackass, and Dusty wasn’t nursing a headache. So, all in all, the day was going pretty well so far. She’d tied her hair up into a messy ponytail before leaving, something that Spinel couldn’t stop glancing at. In fact, that was probably why she was walking backwards. She thought she was being clever too. That was sorta cute. 

They’d been unsure of what to do about the bathing suit situation. Spinel was excited about trying on human accessories, but since there wasn’t really anything to cover, the discussion of what to wear became purely a matter of preference. She’d tried swimming trunks and hadn’t liked them. She’d tried a bikini and found it uncomfortable, plus Dusty said it looked especially stupid on her nonhuman body. Finally she’d settled on a blue and yellow-spotted one-piece. 

_“Is it normal for humans to have so much water clothes?” _

_“For humans living on the beach, a couple of bathing suits is to be expected. But you’re wondering why I have thirty-seven different pairs of bathing suits, aren’t you?”_

_“I’m wondering why you have thirty-seven different pairs of bathing suits.”_

_“I had an ex who had a shoplifting fetish. Since it’s wrong to kink shame, I now owe the local Delmarva economy about two thousand grand.” _

_“I don’t wanna know what any of those words mean.” _

Dusty just wore dark grey swim trunks and a tank top with a bikini top underneath. She went barefoot, since she figured it’d just be a short walk. She did live meters from the water, after all. But Spinel insisted they walk allllll the way to the other side of the beach, under the cliff with the lighthouse. By the time it was in sight, Spinel started doing cartwheels. She let out a soft “ooooh” when her feet and hands hit the waters surface, sending up a light splash of glistening salt water. Dusty shook her head. 

“Have you never touched water before?” 

“I have!” Spinel called back as she now sloshed further and further from the beach, and, as Dusty could see, using her gradually extending legs to ensure she kept her full torso braced against the rhythm of low waves. “Just never this much! It’s crazy!” 

“It’s most of the planet, actually.”

“Whaaaaaaat?!” 

After awhile, Dusty “begrudgingly” joined Spinel in the water. She refused to be reduced to hand-splashing and gayass giggling, so she mainly just relaxed in the floating ring and occasionally did her duty of complimenting whatever stunt Spinel demanded she look at. 

“Dusty, check this out!” Spinel said, doing a one-hand-stand on the surface of the water with a cartoonishly inflated hand. 

“Wow.” 

“Dusty, Dusty, look at this!” Spinel said, mimicking the floating ring by coiling her body around itself. 

“That’s nice.” 

“Hey, hey, Dusty! Hey! Watch this! Dusty!” Spinel said. 

“Fantastic form.”

“You weren’t even looking!”

“I was, I totally saw everything.”

“What did I do?”

“Yeah.” 

“Ugggghhhhh!”

Things stayed like this for awhile, with Dusty eventually dozing off upon the gentle massage of the ocean’s lapping water. The sun felt perfectly unobtrusive today, peeking out through thin clouds so as to make its warmth felt without burn. It was the perfect kind of sky for Dusty, blue blue blue, but with enough fluffy clouds to break the monotony. Dusty didn’t like clear skies. It made her feel like she was sandwiched between two oceans, ready to suffocate. Soon enough, she started to half-dream. The kind when you’re still aware of your body’s sensations, but you trick yourself into thinking you’re somewhere else. Dusty dreamt she was in a warm bathtub, short fingers stroking soap through her hair. Her limbs looked much shorter. Everything looked taller. She heard humming, then singing, but she couldn’t understand the words. The voice was beautiful and warm and so close to her. 

After some time, Dusty awoke. She’d fallen asleep feeling her ponytail in the water with her left hand, the way it felt so soft submerged in the water. Her arm was now numb. Her fingers tingled in the water like the salt was lightly biting her. She heard Spinel calling her name from the beach, again and again. _Ugh, what now? She gonna backflip?_ Dusty looked up. Spinel was waving something in her hand. Her phone. Had she gotten a text from the group or something? She paddled over to the beach, soon reaching Spinel despite her tingly numb arm. 

Dusty pulled the rubber tube off her ass. “What?” 

“Can you tell me what time it is? I can’t read this.” 

_For the love of..._ “2:12 PM.” 

“Thanks!” Spinel said, tossing the phone back on the towel Dusty had set it on. She then pulled a notebook out of her gem, flipped through the pages, and nodded to herself. “That weird symbol matches the weird symbols I recorded, so it checks out.” She looked weirdly self-satisfied. 

“Uhhh, what?”

“Wanna watch me do a cannon ball?!” Spinel suddenly yelled, shoving the notebook back into her chest gem thing, which Dusty was beginning to rationalize was just like storing a wallet in a bra or something. 

With things like this, it was best to just go along. “Sure thing, Spinel.” 

Spinel grinned. “Okay, keep your eye on _that_ spot over there!” She pointed far out into the water. 

“And why’s that?” 

“I’m gonna do a spiraling quadruple backflip into that spot, and I need you to watch that spot for it.” 

“I thought it was a cannonball.”

“It ends in a cannonball.”

“Shouldn’t I watch the whole thing? You’re jumping from the ridge by the lighthouse, right? I can just start watching from there.”

“The first part is too fast.” 

“Okay, Goku, I think I can handle—“

“It’s a gem thing.” 

“Ugh, okay. Fine, fine.” Dusty had learned her lesson from earlier that day and decided to stop pushing. 

“Splash you soon, Doll!” Spinel turned on her heeled and skipped off towards the base of the cliff. 

_Doll..? _

———————————————

Spinel lost practically all her color the instant she passed out of sight. Her hair drooped and she felt her body sag. She wanted to collapse into a bendy mess in the grass, but pushed herself upwards anyway. She had a friend to save. And hopefully, soon, someone even more... 

Eventually, despite her emotional exhaustion, she reached the peak. Her gaze fell upon the line of smooth stones lined up along the cliff’s edge. She knew she’d only need one. Her aim was perfect. Still, it was best to be prepared. Picking up the largest rock on the end, Spinel tossed it up in the air and caught it once, twice, testing the weight, the aerodynamics. The wind was blowing lightly in from the sea. There was two small chips along the rocks edge. She was high above, there was the downward tilt of gravity. She’d account for all of it. 

For the first time, she looked down. She could see Dusty, wadding in the water, looking out to where she’d been told. How long had she waited like that while Spinel sluggishly climbed? She saw by her hand that some of her pink was returning. 

_I love you so much. This is for you. Thank you, for waiting for me._

She threw. 

————————————————

Dusty had waited longer than she’d expected to. After this, her body would probably be a prune. The same boring ass spot in the water. She’d stared so long, the worry began to creep up that her eyes had subtly drifted somewhere else and she’d miss Spinel’s performance. Why did that even matter now? She wasn’t supposed to care about that kinda shit. Then, she heard a noise like something cutting the wind. Dusty smiled. _Finally, the clown arrives. It’s about fucking ti—_

Dusty heard her teeth smash together before she heard the crack. She felt something wet dripping on her shoulders before she felt the impact. She smelled iron mix with the salty air. 

The reddening water around her, swallowing up her stomach, then chest, then neck and face, was the last thing she saw. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, you babies. The romcom ride ends now.
> 
> Comments appreciated! Even if they're really mad or upset with me!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qgDrpWWxuto


	11. Stained Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please appreciate the jarring tense shift halfway through.

The first day of Spinel’s reconnaissance was spent where Dusty had told her she could learn about almost anything legal: the public library. After asking a very disturbed library assistant the fastest way to kill a human, she learned that murder was not generally legal. After asking a less fazed orangish-green Peridot (who apparently worked there too) the fastest way to kill a human, to ensure no harm should happen to humans, she got a pretty thorough list. 

There was poisoning. Spinel could slip rat poison or pour bleach into Dusty’s coffee, or the copious amounts of fermented wheat she drank (though with noticeably less frequency, which made her think of what Jiz said, which made her smile). 

There was decapitation. Spinel could separate Dusty’s head from her body with relative ease given her strength. She just needed a sharp object. Though, given her plan, it would be best for it to look like an accident. So decapitation was out. 

There was drowning. Dusty lived next to a lot of water. A whole lot. She put a star next to drowning. 

There was blunt force trauma, which seemed to be the most common way humans accidentally died very quickly. There were a lot of options for this. Spinel could push Dusty off a cliff, smash her head with a brick, push her off a building, punch her really hard, push her off a higher cliff. She put a star next to blunt force trauma. 

After leaving the library, Spinel attended to her other very important mission. Stalking a teenage boy. It was far more boring than she’d expected. She’d gotten all excited from the spy movies she’d watched with Dusty, but the real thing was mainly just sitting up high on a hill and watching his cheery butt frolic about and talk about his feelings. He was really annoying. She had borrowed a digital watch and did her best to match the squiggles on the tiny screen in her notebook, alongside a description of where he was and what he was doing at the time. The exact activity didn’t matter as much as how long he’d spend doing it and where he was when it happened. 

——————————————————

The second day of Spinel’s reconnaissance was spent scouting parts of the beach out of earshot to anyone and making note of similarly isolated tall ledges. Steven was still boring and helping everyone, always willing to listen and attentive. She didn’t see the resemblance. Her human was better anyway. 

Speaking of, Dusty had started to ask questions, so Spinel had to start "buying" gallons of milk. Dusty made a joke about that once, how that was what people went out to get. So it seemed a safe bet. 

——————————————————

The third day, Spinel learned what "pain" meant for humans. 

She had decided to make another trip to the library, to look more into human anatomy. She didn’t understand things like lung capacity or bone resilience. The, um... Detailed illustrations frequently made mention of "nerves," so she tried asking a librarian assistant what those were. The only one available was the human she’d freaked out earlier, but the question was innocent enough. And for a time, so was the answer. The human explained feeling, touch — pretty much all the fixings gems had without all the gross gooey bits. 

Then came pain. 

Gems could feel pain. Of course they did. Everything does. Humans, however, in their infinite nonsensicality, feel pain much, much greater than gems do. To an absurd degree. Like, fainting and dying even from shock of how bad something hurts. 

In the library at that moment, sitting between the anatomical health section and the Everybody Poops books, Spinel suddenly felt very bad about writing detailed notes on how to cave Dusty’s skull in, written in glittery gel pens and dotted with hearts. 

She left feeling hollow. The only energy she had remaining was for some light recon on Steven. 

Yep. 

Still a loser. 

—————————————————

The fourth day, Spinel never wanted to leave the couch. She just sat there, playing fighting game after fighting game, destroying everyone she came against online. She ended careers that day. She destroyed dreams. Going outside felt pointless now, but she felt she should keep up her schedule-tracking of Universe regardless of how she felt about her plans at the moment. 

Spinel watched him hold hands with another human, hug, and kiss her. She wanted to throw him into space. She could hear the jokes he made with the girl. They weren’t as funny as Dusty’s. As she watched him kiss her goodbye and skip (like a loser) back to his house, she figured it was about time to get some milk and head home herself. 

On her way to the convenience store, however, Spinel passed by a human. She was wrinkly and small, bending down impossibly slow to pick up a letter that had fallen to the ground. Spinel could hear her wheezing as she pushed her decrepit body beyond its narrow limits. Eventually, Spinel just shot her hand out and grabbed the letter for the human, more out of frustration than anything. She didn’t listen as the old woman thanked her excessively, just watched the lines in her face, wounds of a battle her skin was losing to gravity. 

After that, Spinel decided to forget the milk, and head back to the library. 

—————————————————

That day and the fifth was a blur of planning. She’d asked Peridot what the most painless kinds of deaths were. Spinel didn’t have a gun, and probably couldn’t acquire one, so most of them were out. However, apparently drowning hurt... A lot. So that star was crossed out. Also apparently, a quick, very strong impact to the back of the head was the most reliable method. She underlined "blunt force trauma" in sparkling blue gel ink. 

——————————————————

The sixth day, at 2:25, Spinel dives through a pool of red ink to drag a limp Dusty to the beach. She didn’t realize humans could leak so much. So, this was what blood looked like outside of the colorful, intricate circulatory systems she’d seen in those glossy, clean pages. It’s much redder here. 

She spends a moment trying to decide how she should carry Dusty’s body: on her back, legs under her arms, or in front, which she learned from movies was called a “bridal carry.” She decides that the latter would be best, since she could get some practice now for the future. Dusty’s limbs feel floppier than usual, almost like Spinel’s. 

At 2:27, Spinel notices Dusty’s eyes fluttering, like how they did when she’d been sleeping for awhile, right before she’d start muttering to herself. Her studies taught her that this was part of dreaming, which was like watching movies in your head. She wonders if Dusty was watching a movie right now. She wonders if Dusty was going to start muttering now too. 

She doesn’t. 

At 2:28, Spinel reaches the front of Universe’s house. She pounds on the door with her foot, but no one answers. That was inconvenient, since the majority of the times she’d checked, Steven was home at this time. After waiting another minute, she decides she’ll have to check his other usual spots. Dusty has started spasming lightly. 

At 2:33, Spinel makes someone in the Big Donut puke up an eclair when she kicks open the door and runs in with a profusely-bleeding Dusty. Steven wasn’t any of the four horrified patrons or one screaming employee. It was a shame the man behind the counter was now cowering in the fetal position under the jelly donut display, because Spinel was kinda hungry, and figured that Dusty would be too when she woke back up. She always was after getting out of bed. 

Ooop. Blood was leaking from her mouth now too. That wasn’t appetizing at all. 

At 2:34, Dusty stops breathing. 

At 2:35, Spinel reaches the Arcade. More horrified looks. Many small humans screaming. No Steven. Spinel promptly leaves the Arcade. 

At 2:36, Spinel wonders why Dusty feels so much heavier now. She’s starting to panic. Steven isn’t anywhere. What if he’s off-world? She hadn’t accounted for that. Why hadn’t she accounted for that? He’s the goddamn fucking ambassador for Earth-Homeworld relations, why the _fuck_ did she think the furthest he’d go would be a fucking arcade? 

At 2:38, Spinel thinks,_ I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to get that injector and I’m going to kill that stupid little loser and this whole worthless, dumb, smelly planet. That fucking, shitheaded, bitch, asshole, dick, FUCKWAD! _

She laughs and weakly smiles down at Dusty, who is definitely dead at this point. _See what you’ve turned my vocabulary into? So many colorful words. _

Her laughter turns to sobbing. She wonders if_ her tears _could have healing powers. She was Pink Diamond’s after all. Fat tears fall on Dusty’s bloodstained, perfect face. She waits. 

At 2:40, Spinel decides she probably doesn’t have healing tears. Dusty is still the same level of not-alive. She’s pacing in front of Steven’s house when she realizes she hasn’t checked Little Homeworld, which felt about as far from her then as Old Homeworld was. She begins to head in that direction when she hears a earthshaking roar from behind her. 

Spinel turns around. The air itself rips open into a shimmering white oval. Out jumps a massive pink cat ridden by the dumbass loser nerd dipshit himself. 

And his girlfriend, or whatever. 

—————————————————

Steven Universe’s day had been really great. He’d gotten to hang out with the other crystal gems, help Lapis float up some supplies for Bismuth’s scaffolding, introduce a new Nephrite couple to the neighborhood, and he’d just finished seeing a movie with his best friend in the whole world, Connie. 

“So, what’d you think?” Steven shimmied through the cramped theater aisle to the stairs, as he stepped over crushed kernels and chewed straws littering the floor, he neatly folded and refolded the bag of popcorn he and Connie had shared, which of course had become empty in the first twenty minutes of the film. He put it in his jacket pocket for now — Amethyst loved buttery paper. He’d tried _really_ hard not to eat more than half of the popcorn, but it was a struggle. Connie’s eyes were glued intently to the screen, and she barely even touched their snacks or slushee. She must have really enjoyed the movie, just like he did. She probably had a lot of super sophisticated reasons for liking it though. He loved listening to her explain her opinions of stuff like that. “Yeah, I thought it was pretty goo—“

“That movie was a total catastrophe!” Connie yelled, throwing her hands above her head for emphasis, as she often did. 

_Oh boy._ “Are you saying that cause it’s bad, or is ‘_cat_astrophe’ supposed to be a play on how Dogcopter realizes he’s half-cat on his mother’s side in the second act?” Steven was proud of himself for remembering three act structure, as Connie explained it. 

She giggled. “Well, both, actually.” She bumped Steven with her shoulder and he grinned back. “It defeats the entire purpose of the meta-narrative, the subtext, the question we the viewers ask ourselves and Dogcopter struggles with every day: is he more copter than dog?” 

“But now we can ask if he’s more copter than _cat_ than dog! Even more layers! Even more text!” 

Connie laughed again. “Steven, that’s not what that means.”

“Death of the author!” He cheered. 

“I should _never_ have sent you that twelve-part film theory series on TubeTube.” Connie rolled her eyes, and reached her hand out to open the theater exit. But before she had a chance, Steven dashed in front of her and pushed the door open, offering a bow. 

“M’Lady.” 

She snickered. “Ew! Don’t call me that! The internet’s ruined that word for me forever.” 

Steven smirked, determined to keep the act up. “Thine chariot awaits,” he gestured toward a sleeping Lion with an extended arm and another bow. “M’Laaaady.” Connie shivered.

“I think I’m good with walking home.” 

“Nooooo! I’m sorry! Forgive me!” 

The two laughed as they climbed aboard the massive rosey feline. They both pointed out toward the expanse of the parking lot and yelled in unison, “Onward, mighty steed!” 

Lion grunted in annoyance, then roared. 

“Excelsior!” They both yelled, once again in unison. 

——————————————————

Blood. Lots and lots of blood. Screaming. Lots of that too. What Steven first noticed was that the beach was stained. Wet and red. Sweet cherry syrup drizzled onto the shaved ice at FunLand came to mind. Only darker. Thicker. Was the ground moving? He felt lightheaded. There was buzzing in his ears. Green TV static shrouded his vision. His stomach felt queasy. It felt like the world was shaking. Was Lion shaking? There was a tightness on his arm. Oh, Connie. Steven focused his attention to where the tightness was originating from. Eventually, he could make out her voice. 

“—ven! Steven! You have to help! Snap out of it, please!” 

A second before he could turn to see Connie’s face, another voice cut through the din of buzzes harmonizing in his skull. It came through less clearly. Was that because he doesn’t know it, or because it was completely incoherent? The source entered his view like an actor on a dark stage, his vision a spotlight against his current blindness: an anti-blindspot. 

It— They— She— She was a gem. A red one. Or was she pink? He... He couldn’t tell. 

_Oh fr*ck. _

She was on her knees and screaming. At him, Steven thought, though she wouldn’t stop looking at the body in her arms, which was _definitely_ a red one. The body in her arms. The body... 

_Oh h*ck. _

A sharp, sudden pain on his right cheek pulled Steven’s attention back to Connie, who’d just slapped him hard, turning that side of the green static swamping his eyes into a cluster of spinning white stars instead. “S-Sorry!” she yelled, apologetically and clearly. He could hear clearly now.

Maybe violence _was _the answer sometimes. 

“It’s just, you wouldn’t say anything,” she continued apologizing, “and they _need_ you! That person is dying!” 

“SHE’S ALREADY DEAD!” The pink-red, red-pink gem yelled, coherently for a change. 

“She’s already dead, Steven!”

“Uh, uh, uh, okay just... Just give me a second!” 

“SHE’S BEEN DEAD FOR SEVERAL MINUTES!” More yelling from the crimson-coral alien. 

“Steven, I’m here with you! You can do this, you just need to calm down and go for it!” Connie gripped his hand tightly. Had it been shaking this whole time? 

Steven shook his head, like he was trying to empty the fuzziness in his brain out his ears like water from a bucket. “You’re right, you’re right! I’m calm.” He wasn’t really. 

“I’M NOT!” The stained scarlet-rose extraterrestrial yelled, again. 

“Yes, I know! We’re sorry! This’ll just take a sec!” Connie yelled back. She turned back to Steven. “Can you... You know?”

“Stay conscious? Probably.”

“I was gonna say ‘cry.’” 

“Most definitely not.”

“Really? You’re sure?” 

He squeezed Connie’s hand back lightly, and placed his other hand over hers, enveloping her hand within his larger palm. “Connie, there’s only one place the fluid in my body wants to leave, and I’m using it right now to hyperventilate.”

“Gross.” 

“Yeah, so let’s fuse.”

“You want to move your puke to a shared stomach or something?” Connie made a squeamish face. 

“No? What?! Ew, no! I meant since you’re more...”

“—IS THERE SO MUCH BLOOD?!” 

“... stable at the moment. It’ll balance out! Stevonnie is always more emotional than either of us alone anyway, _and_ they have all my powers!” 

Connie shrugged. “That makes sense, I guess.” It wasn’t the worst idea Steven had had all day: that prize was taken by thinking Dogcopter VI had a traditional three act structure. 

“Yeah, so hurry!”

Connie jumped off first, and turned to help Steven dismount, so as not to add some fresh-made cream corn to his mom’s serene pocket dimension via a hypothetically very angry Lion. He grabbed her hand and shakily lowered himself to the ground. Lion took the opportunity to bury his head down deep in the beach and cover his ears with sand. They both knew without discussion that the fastest, least sickness-inducing dance would be necessary. Connie held Steven’s waste as he held her back. They swayed lightly back and forth. 

“WHY ARE YOU FUCKING DANCING?!” The dark-red-light-red out-of-stater yelled. 

They pulled their bodies together into a hug, and the beach erupted into light. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Stevonnie formed from the two teenagers’ luminous bodies, and jogged up to the kneeling gem and her bloody cargo. For once, she stopped yelling, dumbstuck by the unprecedented spectacle she’d just, and was continuing to, witness. Stevonnie smiled sheepishly as they crouched beside the wide-eyed gem. 

“Speechless, huh? Yeah, I get that a lot.”

The gem turned her head to the side and puked up white goo. It smelled curdled. She wiped her mouth with a gloved hand before returning it to supporting the body’s head. 

“Okay, you're not who I was expecting would do that first. Anyway,” they looked down, focusing their attention on the body within the pink one’s arms. They inspected the body’s features. Definitely a human. Definitely dead. After a moment, they turned over the head, which made the gem flinch for a second, but eventually she slid her hand out of the way. Stevonnie smiled reassuringly at her. 

The wound was bad, to say the least. A deep, wide gash that concaved the back of her skull and was still leaking blood. Stevonnie internally concentrated, willing Steven’s consciousness to settle behind Connie’s, then moved their fingertips to feel along the damage. They could feel fragments of skull, cracked inwards and piercing...

What was inside the skull. 

They took a deep breathe. The gem had been right. This person had certainly died some time ago, and quickly, by the feel of it. Even if she hadn’t died yet, or if she’d gotten help sooner, there was no way she’d have survived by traditional means. Stevonnie took a deep breath in and focused. This wasn’t like Lars, neither Steven nor Connie knew this gem or the human. Steven felt she looked vaguely familiar, but he was in too much shock to focus and remember. They’d have to both reach deep into their own memories to induce crying. 

For Connie, she thought back to the moment she had waded in the ocean, helplessly watching Steven be kidnapped by a psychotic and strangely British sadist with a magical girl fetish. Stevonnie started to tighten their throat. 

Then, she thought of the moment she’d held Steven’s sickly, gemless body in her arms. The feeling of watching a piece of him, severed violently from his stomach, form itself into what she thought in the moment to be a grim, robotic parody of her best friend. Thinking of holding someone precious to her in her arms as they faded away, she felt a surge of empathy for this panicked gem. Stevonnie’s eyes grew misty 

Steven thought of a snake, getting a hand-knit sweater for Eid Al-Fitr (this particular snake was Muslim, but Steven didn’t consider snakes to carry any negative connotations, so this wasn’t a generalization about any particular demographic or anything), but not being able to wear it, since the useless, empty sleeves would drag and get caught on rocks and sticks on the ground. 

Stevonnie began to weep uncontrollably. A shower of teardrops hit the human’s face, washing away some of the blood, and wetting the hair matted to her forehead. Afterwards, there was a moment of silent anticipation, during which it wasn’t just the body which didn’t breathe. The tears began to slide down her clammy skin. Stevonnie bit their lip. Then, the trails glimmered and faded into light. A faint white glow, which enveloped the body and settled into pink. Her eyelids began to flutter. 

Stevonnie grinned up at the gem, once again awestruck, but hopefully in a less pukey way. “Don’t worry. She’s gonna be just fine.”

The gem didn’t look up at Stevonnie, her eyes staying glued to the now pink human in her arms. Eventually, she responded. “Uh, her name is Dusty. I was taught names are important to humans.” 

Stevonnie winked. “Someone taught you well. That’s right. Thanks for letting me know. Dusty is gonna be just fine.”

At that moment, as if on queue, Dusty shot up, barely missing both attentive gem’s heads each by fractions of an inch. She coughed, turned to the side, and puked white goo onto the reddened sand. It smelled curdled, but with a tint of purplish hue. She then collapsed back into position on the bloody pink lap, slipping back into unconsciousness. Without a word, she was out again. 

Stevonnie smiled, as Steven and Connie internally breathed a sigh of relief. And they all managed it without puking. 

“Hey shtooball!” A familiar voice called from just beyond the sand dunes. 

_Oh no. _Just then, Steven remembered something he’d been looking forward to just minutes ago. Greg, his dad, walked into sight, proudly flaunting a tub of...

_Oh d*ng. _

“I got the vanilla ice cream you wanted! For the cookout! Steven?” He stopped a couple meters before the... four of them. Or three of them. 

“It’s a bit soupy...” 

_Please stop talking._

“...And warm. Sorry, uh, is this a bad time?” Greg’s concerned eyes glanced briefly at the shivering, blood-covered gem huddled on the beach. But primarily he switched back and forth between Stevonnie and a newly-pinkened human laying unconscious beside his half-son. 

Warm, soupy white goo... Stevonnie glanced over at the puddles of vomit next to them. 

_Yep, that’s it. Sorry, Connie._

_Wait, Steven, no! That would make everything worse — I had clam chowder for breakfast!_

Stevonnie bent over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't think of a song for this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you all like the chapter, lemme know how ya feel! Especially if the emotions are negative. 
> 
> I feed from your misery.


	12. Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's MY story, and I get to choose the shameless product placements! Check out the link in the end notes for my amazing, talented, brilliant boyfriend's art shop! We're still working on him creating fanart for the blog, but here you'll be able to see his incredible skills!
> 
> (Sorry for the long wait. Family emergency that is now almost over. Will post more often for the forseeable future.)

“Is a Sailor Moon T-shirt with the caption ‘On Wednesdays we wear pink’ the best thing to put in Dusty’s gift bag?”

“Well...” Steven began, before Lars cut him off. 

“Before you answer that — is a _gift bag_ the best thing to give Dusty?” 

“Wouldn’t you have been happy to get a gift bag after waking up?” This was Steven’s repeated justification. 

“I would have been happier to not be pink.” This was Lars’s repeated response. 

“Let’s wind this back. I think it’s nice! Dusty is going to be feeling a lot of things when she wakes up, so I figured we shouldn’t set the tone as negative.” 

Lars shook his head, shifting the bowl of beatened eggs and flour from one hand to the other. “But what if negative is how she feels when she wakes up? That novelty T-shirt isn’t going to help then. No matter how comfortable it is.”

“Or stylish!” Steven quickly added. 

“Or reasonably priced,” Lars said, nodding. He placed the bowl on the counter, which he’d only recently cleared of a dozen dirty dishes and charred towel remains. “Look, Sadie, you’re better at this stuff than I am. Talk some sense into Steven.”

The green-haired rockstar looked up from the assembled stack of Dusty’s CDs she’d been skimming through for the past ten minutes. “Mhm. Yeah, whatever Lars said.” She handed the one she’d been reading to Connie, who sat beside her, who took it and added it to the growing alphabetized rack. 

Steven pouted in Sadie’s direction. “You didn’t even listen!” 

“I’m sure he’s right about this.”

“Hey, that’s not how it usually works.”

Lars shot Steven a dirty look. “I take offense to that.” He began to work his hands into the dough. Picked clumps were tossed from bowl to countertop, then flattened and shaped within seconds. 

Sadie cut in before Steven could dig himself down any further. “He’s the only other human you know who’s gone through this. I think his opinion outweighs yours, Steven.”

“Connie!” Steven shot a desperate glance her way, as she slid the last “G” beside the first “I” she’d found. “Help me out here!” 

Connie raised an eyebrow, then gave a small cough. “Uh, well... You see, Steven...”

He gasped. “You’re taking _their_ side? But...”

“I just think that we should take things a little more...”

“But...”

“_Seriously,_ considering all she must be going through, and...”

“But...” 

“Leave our assumptions at the door!”

“But _jam buds,_ Connie! Did those tasty preserves mean NOTHING?!” 

She rolled her eyes, and in doing so, caught something in her peripheral. Or rather, the distinct lack of something. Connie sighed. “She’s snuck back into Dusty’s room again.” 

“How does she keep doing that?” Lars yelled over his shoulder, half his attention stolen by a series of quickly multiplying star-shaped cookies. 

“I’ll get her this time,” Connie said. She moved the remaining uncategorized pile of CD cases from her lap back to the carpet, and hurried over to the closed door furthest in view of the kitchen. She opened it, carefully and slowly, and as it creaked, wondered how Spinel kept managing to sneak in unnoticed. This was the third time. 

Just like last time, the scene awaiting any of the humans who’d entered that room today was the same: Spinel kneeled motionlessly beside Dusty’s bed, one hand between her chin and the edge of the mattress, and the other hand clutching the unconscious human’s. She just... stared at her, unblinkingly. The gem didn’t register Connie’s arrival, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care. Connie took a hesitant step forward, but before she got a chance to speak, Spinel spoke instead. 

“Just a little bit longer. She’s going to wake up soon, and I don’t want her to be alone.” 

Connie stood corrected: it seems the pink gem had indeed noticed her entry. Her voice was so soft, like she was somehow worried about waking Dusty, despite what she’d just said. Connie gave a small smile, though Spinel didn’t turn to see it. “You don’t have to whisper, you know.”

“Dusty said I should be quiet when she’s trying to sleep.”

“Spinel,” she paused. She had to word this delicately. “Dusty isn’t sleeping right now.”

This got a reaction. Spinel turned her head slightly and peered at Connie out of the corner of her magenta eye. “So, she’s pretending?”

“She’s knocked out. It’s like being poofed. It’ll just take some time for her to get back up.” _We hope._ Connie had explained this once or twice before, thankfully, and knew how to phrase it in a way that gems could understand. 

Spinel’s eyes slid back toward Dusty’s motionless face. “Either way, I need to be by her side when she wakes up.” It didn’t seem like there was any changing her mind. Connie hesitated by the door, but then shrugged and opened it to leave. Before she could close it behind her, Spinel spoke up again. “Could you leave the door open? Dusty doesn’t make noise anymore and the room feels too small now.” 

Connie frowned, confused. She had no idea what Spinel meant, but figured it wouldn’t do any harm. She’d prefer the door open anyway. She nodded to the depressed gem and took her leave, keeping the door open halfway. 

Spinel noted with disinterest as the noisy blur in her peripheral faded from view. She turned back to Dusty, who laid still as a rock. The non-sentient kind. She checked back on the door. No one outside could see the bed from where they were. She quietly crawled up onto it, beside Dusty, holding her hand and pressing her face into the crook of her shoulder. 

———————————————————

The waves were a little wild. The woman could feel them flirting with her body, lightly tugging her beneath the lip of the water, filling her naval, covering her chest, swallowing her neck, licking her chin, before spitting her back up. She watched it slide up and down her tanned skin. She remembered the bob on her father’s fishing hook, bouncing up after a failed catch. His swears followed each bounce like a tagline — unfamiliar profanity bubbled up like the foam. She quickly blocked the memories of his mounting frustration, instead focusing on her surroundings. 

She was in a white ocean, endless. She could see forever into the clear water if the desire was there. It wasn’t. The woman dreaded her body following her gaze, her entirety sinking with her eyeballs. 

Like anchors they’d always pulled her feet toward far down places. 

The water was warm, though. Lightly wavering liquid kissed her knees. For the first time in a long time, she thought of her mother twice in the same week, a woman who weathered typhoons and had the appearance that she’d be folded in half by a weak breeze. She thought of her uneven, self-cut bangs and her polished wood-brown eyes, her short fingers and her hairless forearms. She thought of the red-frame glasses she refused to ever use and the dark leather shoes she wore like slippers by practice of pushing the back down with her soles. She thought of her hugs. It’s amazing how much warmth could feel like a person. 

The woman thought of the tubes too. The pumping and the pressure and enforcement of air into her mother’s collapsing lungs. She spared only a moment’s thought for the absence of her father in the bedside chair. She was remembering the beeping machines when she realized she wasn’t breathing. The woman had realized quickly that she was dreaming. She wondered if she ever _did_ breathe in her dreams? Noticeably? She knew that she did. Yet her chest stayed motionless, save for the shifting of its dimensions under the light of the flickering sea. 

What was happening? Had the hospital stolen all the oxygen in the world, forcing it down her mother’s throat in an effort to keep her heart beating? Had they forgotten to give any of it back when that plan hadn’t worked? Wait.

Was the woman’s heart even beating?

Her stream of thought was interrupted by a sudden, intense pain in her head. She heard cracking teeth. She felt a foreign dampness on her neck, distinct from the warm white ocean like the difference between a dry heat and humidity. She smelled metal mix and swell through the lazy aroma of salt. She felt like a plush animal with its stuffing pulled through a tear in the seam of her skull by chubby, wet fingers. The woman turned her head, hoping she could stop the leaking feeling, and saw that all the water around her was now red. Darkest by the source of her pain, lightening by the growing spill’s edges. She felt emptier by the moment. 

The woman figured that was it. She felt faded. She was less and less as the carmine spill around her became more and more. She closed her eyes. At least the water was warm. 

She was gone. 

Until the itching started.

It began as a light tingling, which the woman figured was just an affect of her slipping away. Until the feeling tore her eyes back open and seized her whole body. She felt molested by a giant hand made of broken glass and poison ivy. Her eyes shot open and on both sides of her she could see the light red puddle retreating inward, towards her. Like someone sucking oil out of water with a straw, her body pulled its spilled contents back. The woman almost felt relief. 

Until the red didn’t go back into her head. It clung to her skin. It stained her. The light red coated every inch of her body — skin, hair, fingernails. She was left hollow yet painted, a mega-sized Easter egg. She didn’t feel real. The woman didn’t feel anything. The warmth of the water had faded, gone mute. The pain was replaced with dizziness. She wasn’t human anymore. She wasn’t human. She wasn’t. She wasn’t human. 

_I’m not human. _

She looked down at her body. 

_I’m..._

———————————————————

“Pink?” Spinel asked into the garden. Her word, born strong, grew timid fast as it bounced from brick to column, and from flower petal to grass blade. Finally, dying on the stairs to the warp pad and rising to a heaven in the stars above the silent sanctuary. Her Diamond had left only moments ago, hadn’t she? So why did she feel eons in the passing seconds? Why did the vibrant plants seem to fade before her eyes, and the sheen on the glossy columns seem suffocated in dust? Why did the levitating marble obelisks sink closer to the ground? 

One by one the stars in the sky seemed to blink out, with the affect of making the roof of the cosmos seem smaller and smaller, pushing Spinel further to the ground. She pressed her face to the decaying marble tile. She could smell dirt and dust and rotting plant matter; there was sea salt and ash and old pizza boxes; she could smell the breeze and _her_ hair and unwashed bedsheets. 

It was the sensation of her head caving into the ground beneath her, and the light tickling of water on the edge of her hand that clued Spinel in that she was no longer in the garden. She looked up, and the setting before her looked like two worlds eating each other: one made of a billion tiny rocks and the other super wet. The only thing that remained from the garden was the star-filled sky. The place seemed familiar, somehow. Though, Spinel couldn’t think of a name. Suddenly, a voice chimed in to help. 

“It’s called the beach, dumbass.” 

Dusty stood cross-armed, barefoot in the low tide. White baggy pants folded up to her knees, a white sleeveless crop top — she’d never looked prettier. Maybe it was the clean clothes. Also, she was pink. Her hair, once black, was now such a light shade that it almost glowed; combed and parted to the left, it was the first time Spinel had ever seen Dusty’s hair styled in any way. Her brown eyes were the only part of her that hadn’t shifted hue. Spinel was relieved: she really did love Dusty’s eyes. 

“You’re staring,” Dusty said. She smirked. “Looks good on me, right?” She gave a little twirl. 

Spinel could only nod, transfixed. Dusty laughed. “Anything you’d like to say?”

Spinel had a lot she wanted to say. She stuttered. This was very overwhelming. She still wasn’t entirely clear what was going on. One concern sprung to the surface, however. 

“You’re not mad..?” Her voice quivered. Spinel was certain she’d done the right thing. But she was also certain that smashing someone’s brains in with a rock wasn’t traditional best friend behavior. Some explaining might be in order. 

Dusty just smiled again, more tenderly though. “Why would I be mad? You did what was best for us both, silly. Now I don’t gotta worry about getting that old person smell.”

Spinel giggled. “They do smell!” 

“Yeah, and now I don’t gotta worry about that, or about losing all my minihead bones that don’t make sense but also humans are very disgusting without.”

“Those ‘gum’ things are the worst!” Spinel added. 

Dusty nodded to herself. “I guess there’s really only one thing left to do now, huh?”

Spinel tilted her head. “What’s that?”

She grinned. “I guess we just gotta get married now, huh?” 

Spinel sprung up to her feet in an instant. “Oh, Dusty! I love you so much!” She frolicked over to her and jumped into her awaiting, buffer-than-you’d-expect arms. 

“I love you too,” Dusty laughed. “I always wanted to tell you how much I love you and how good at video games you are!” 

Spinel buried her face into Dusty’s neck, breathing her in and preparing to pronounce her carefully memorized wedding vows. She began to hear a faint noise in the distance, but ignored it. “What flavor cake do you want? I was thinking strawberry vanilla with waffles on top!”

“Oh, I love that!” Dusty concurred. “My favorite flavors. Another thing we have in common!” 

The noise was picking up in volume. It sounded like screaming. Spinel ignored it, still. 

“Wow, gosh golly! This is the happiest I’ve ever been!”

“I’m not even going to make fun of you for saying ‘gosh golly’ — it’s charming and is appropriate for this circumstance.”

“Yaaay!”

The sound was definitely screaming, and it was starting to give Spinel a headache — the only blemish on the perfection that was this moment. Finally, she said something. “Whazzat annoying noise?”

Dusty looked up, as if she could see its source in the clouds. “Oh, that’s the sound of me screaming.”

The now-confused gem gave her a quizzical look. “But you’re not screaming. Unless it’s with joy!” She gave a half-chuckle. Dusty just shook her head, though. 

“Nah, this is definitely a scream of horror. And it’s from the real me, I guess.”

“But... ‘Real you’?” 

“Yeah, this is a dream.”

“Awwww man.”

“Does this mean I’m gonna die when you wake u—“

———————————————————

Spinel awoke as she was unceremoniously kicked off the bed by a flailing, screaming Dusty. She used the hanging sheets to crawl back up to a sitting position, to see the humans grouped up by the door, waiting awkwardly with a plate of cookies for Dusty to stop screaming and thrashing hysterically. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

“C-Congratulations, Dus—“ they began, before being cut off again. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

“Congratula—“

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

“Congra—“

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

“Thank goodness she hasn’t realized she doesn’t need to breathe yet,” the human Lars muttered to the shorter, chubby human who Spinel didn’t remember the name of. 

Dusty paused a moment. 

Steven grinned. “Finally! So, Dusty—“

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” 

“LARS!” All the other humans yelled at once, momentarily drowning out Dusty’s ongoing yell. Lars winced, but whatever he said next, apologetically, was lost under the noise. 

———————————————————

It took a solid three minutes for Dusty to stop screaming and thrashing about, finally calming down enough for the collective geek association in her room to congratulate her on being hospitalized.

_Wait..._

Why the fuck was she in her own house? Dusty didn’t remember a whole lot, but she certainly remembered nearly dying. She knew she didn’t have the_ best _health insurance, but she figured she should be _somewhere_ in the hospital, even if it was on the floor hooked up to an IV. She wondered if this was payback for that time she bit a doctor. (Major pussy, in that case. He’d been able to reattach both fingers anyway.) That couldn’t be right, though. That was some dumb Quaker hospital anyway, and Dusty was certain she was closer to the jurisdiction of... 

She didn’t know the name of every hospital, _okay? _

Anyway, why were there a bunch of weirdos in her house? She’s used to just the one. Why weren’t her real friends there? Speaking of, Dusty noticed Spinel now in the corner of her eye, slyly slinking her extendable arm around Dusty’s own. She was faster than Dusty expected, cause she’d already covered every inch of her skin in a tight coil. She wanted to give Spinel a glare, but something about setting the gem off right after Dusty had survived major head trauma didn’t seem like the smartest move she could make. 

Regardless, she smelled something sweet. She looked back over and found the source: Lars held out a plate of freshly baked cookies, in dumb little shapes. His forearm was shaking though, and it seemed like he’d been holding the plate out for a while. Weakass nerd. Dusty sighed, and before she could snatch the admittedly appetizing plater from his hand, she noticed the banner hung above her doorway. A once-bubbly letter message butchered by revision. She read it as she reached for a cookie. 

<strike> **IT’S A BOY!** </strike>

<strike> ** GIRL!** </strike>

<strike> **IT’S A PINK!** </strike>

**YOU’RE <strike>A</strike> PINK!**

Appropriately weird given everything else apparently going on. Dusty shook her head. “Okay, did I miss Spinel’s birthday or something?” She casually looked down at her hand to choose between blue or yellow-frosted star cookies. “What’s this about... About pink...?”

Dusty’s eye twitched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to the shirt mentioned in the chapter: https://www.etsy.com/listing/689258690/on-wednesdays-we-wear-pink-unisex-shirt?ref=shop_home_active_14&frs=1  
(I wrote that joke initially to make my boyfriend smile -- my top priority -- but figured it would be a neat way to promote his work.)
> 
> Link to the shop in general: https://www.etsy.com/shop/AnimeHoshi?ref=search_shop_redirect
> 
> For the song I wanted something that blended together Spinel and Dusty's separate themes, so I went with a modern twist on a classic song, like two ages bleeding together, the way their dreams did: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOgdaVoSuWg&list=LLwwLX4tOrGxDx2v47TzczWg&index=73
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated more than anything! 
> 
> Also I don't know how fucking BAKING works, ALRIGHT?!


	13. Bedridden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shortish chapter. Consider this the calm before the storm.

“Okay, now right.” Dr. Maheswaran flicked the tiny flashlight to Dusty’s right eye. Her suspicions were confirmed when Dusty had to again use her fingers to physically hold open her eyelids, which soon quivered and flooded with irritated tears. Thankfully, she didn’t have to hold them open quite as long this time, as Dr. Maheswaran was quite certain. She turned off the bright light, prompting a relieved sigh from her patient. 

“It’s baffling, to say the least,” the Doctor said as she slid the tiny flashlight back into her bag. “I assumed from the initial tests that the problem was nerve damage, which isn’t strange considering the location of the injury. But...” She took another long look at Connie’s friend, the pink boy. “You said your injury healed instantly, with no side effects.” 

It was a statement, not a question, but Lars felt compelled to nod his head regardless. Dr. Maheswaran sighed, then shook her head. 

“It’s like you’re just affected less. By... Well, by everything.” She was now staring at Dusty, inspecting her. Dusty kept her eyes on her hands. “You don’t seem to feel pain, or anything really. You said you can’t feel the texture of the sheets, and your pupils shrink lazily to light. Do you use prescription?”

“Uhhhh,” Dusty looked up, avoiding the Doctor’s gaze. “You’re gonna have to be specific.” 

“Glasses.”

“No.. No, my mom’s eyes got bad when she was thirty, and... Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about that.” Dusty gave a chuckle Dr. Maheswaran had heard too many times. 

“Right,” she stood up, leaving Dusty in the bed and moving to the window. “Well, in that case regular sunglasses should do. You shouldn’t go outside or look out any windows without a pair on. Should help with the discomfort.” She eyed the other pink one. “We’ll have to be careful. From what I checked, Dusty, your heartrate is far slower than even Mr. Barriga’s. You have symptoms which he hasn’t experienced. Keep me updated if anything changes. I’ve got to go. Connie, be sure to give them my number.” 

Dr. Maheswaran quickly gathered her remaining things and left. She gritted her teeth and sighed at the bottom of the stairs to the patio, remembering she’d have to take off her heels if she wanted to make it across the sand to the... 

Magical pink teleporting lion. Right. She was starting to really hate that color. 

———————————————————

“I just want to know how the fuck my skull became an innie, okay?” Dusty said. Half of the Brady Bunch had pissed off. Now it was just the Magic School Bus duo. They sat in chairs they’d pulled alongside the bed. So serious, hands in their laps. The two ten-year-olds looked like they were posing to be parents. With Spinel perpetually at her side, holding onto her arm, she felt constantly trapped in what felt like a mix between a parent-teacher conference and an intervention. Dusty wondered if death would have beaten this. 

They seriously looked more put-together than she did. It was depressing. Steven even flinched every time she cussed, for fuck’s sake. She wondered if Spinel had noticed too: she kept catching her smirking out the corner of her eye every time the Universe boy squirmed. Dusty briefly contemplated exactly what she’d done to this poor alien. 

_Oh shit. His mouth is moving. I didn’t notice. _

“Can you repeat that?” 

Steven paused. “Uh, what exactly?”

“Everything you said. I wasn’t paying attention at all.” 

Spinel snickered. Steven sighed. But, like, considerately. 

_Ugh._

He began again. “Spinel told us while we— well, while _she_ carried you home that a rock hit you in the head while you were swimming in the ocean.”

Dusty blinked. “A rock. From where? The sky?” She felt the hand on her arm clench slightly. 

Steven looked to Connie. She answered for him. “She said she didn’t see it happen. She said she went to jump off the edge and before she hit the water she saw red pooling up. Isn’t that right, Spinel?” 

A voice came weakly from Dusty’s left. “R-Right, that’s what I remember.” 

None of this made sense. “I was nowhere near the cliff. That thing doesn’t even lean much over the beach.” It was subtle, but there was tightening on Dusty’s wrist. 

“So what fucking hit me? A meteor? Am I just the unluckiest fucking human alive?!” She was yelling. Her wrist itched now. It almost stung. 

Connie leaned over, whispered something into Steven’s ear. He frowned, but nodded. “We should probably get going,” he said. “You need to focus on getting rest.” 

Dusty didn’t get a word in before they’d both stood up. She didn’t feel anything in her wrist anymore. Before she could even look over, Spinel was skipping forward, exclaiming, “I’ll walk you out!” She seemed to rush the two out even sooner, and didn’t look back towards the bed. 

When they’d left the room, Dusty checked her left wrist, which thankfully had stopped itching. What she saw made her freeze. She remembered as she stared at the deep purple bruises covering her forearm, that she couldn’t feel almost anything anymore. And she realized as she saw the swelling go down and the indents in her arm fill in like an empty cushion and the little discomfort vanish and the color fade from purple back to light pink...

She wasn’t human anymore. 

Though, at least that stick-up-her-ass Doctor was wrong: the light in the room was dimming already. 

———————————————————

Spinel slammed the door behind the two humans. Then locked it. Then padlocked it. Dusty’s door didn’t have one of those cute little chain locks from the movies. She’d have to get one for her soon. The gem watched the two mouthy humans descend the patio stairs and sighed in relief. She’d have to keep those two away as much as possible. Thankfully, Dusty didn’t seem to like them. She had a good sense for people, clearly. 

Spinel frowned after turning to survey the condition of the living room and kitchen. The humans had left a mess to top it all off, and Dusty was _very_ particular about messes. Those that were her messes were okay, but the messes of others were inexcusable. 

Both were usually cleaned by Spinel. Huh... Maybe Dusty wasn’t that particular after all. 

She thought while she picked up and reorganized the kitchen, living room, even the bathroom — any room that wasn’t Dusty’s. She needed to plan her next moves far away from her human’s dark, piercing, worryingly suspicious gaze. First of all, she would have to keep the Connverse squad away from Dusty, at least while she was recovering from her accident. Spinel didn’t want a bunch of losers putting dumb ideas in her vulnerable Dusty’s head, of course. 

On the subject of Dusty’s recovery, Spinel found it troubling that her organic body wasn’t responding properly to the healing. The older, linier Connie had said that in all ways physical, Dusty was fine, aside from a large scar on the back of her head. Apparently, same with the semi-human Lars, a symbol of the injury from death stayed on the body, even after Pink Diamond’s healing did its work. When would those human legs operate again? When would Dusty start smiling again? When would she be able to get out of bed, and the two of them be able to watch movies and cuddle on the couch, eating “macrorave” nachos (or whatever they were called)? 

Now that she was on the subject, Spinel found it hard to lift her own legs after leaning over to re-disorganize Dusty’s music collection. That was weird. Did a well-meaning, definitely justified, cute gem crush _her_ head in with a rock? Wait a second... She was _cute_ now? Dusty’s presence was definitely a confidence boost. Spinel hadn’t thought of herself as cute since...

_Okay. Those are vines. _

How had she not noticed the literal vines sprouted around her feet? When had they grown in? Did she just not feel them coiling around her, gluing her to the... To the carpet?

Ah. Not real. Okay, Visiting Dusty Time. Spinel tried to look on the bright side. Maybe this was a sign. She was being forced to face this problem early. Dusty wouldn’t ask any bad questions, would believe her, and they would talk and joke and laugh, and the shadows in the corner of Spinel’s eyes would stop growing and the vines would cease their itching. 

Or, worst case scenario, Dusty _would_ ask some tough questions, but would understand why this had to be. Spinel would casually, without sounding too desperate, confess her feelings. Date ideas might be tossed around, over a video game! 

Okay, realistically, that’s not the _worst_ case scenario. She should plan for something actually bad. Dusty would be upset, understandably. This didn’t fit the movies — usually the one to crush people’s skulls were the Bad Guys. But, just like Dusty said, things on Earth don’t always make sense! That’s good, she’ll use that line. It would take a while, but Dusty would soon see her point of view. Date ideas might be tossed around—

Okay, okay,_ okay._ So, actually worst case scenario preparation was necessary. What should she expect? A fight? Panic? Rejection? In any case, there was rope under the sink. 

She was opening Dusty’s bedroom door before she realized she was opening Dusty’s bedroom door. _Quick, what’s worse? Her skeptical, doubting eyes, or the suffocating darkness and sharp vines? Eyes or vines? Vines or eyes? _

_Well, at least I can look at her eyes. _

Dusty’s eyes were closed. On one hand, good, because Dusty’s eyes were closed. On the other hand, lame, because that means Spinel couldn’t see them. Was she asleep? Was she “poofed” again, or however that patronizing Connie had put it? Had Dusty left the right side of the bed so purposefully open? 

Well, she had a lot to consider. 

———————————————————

Dusty “woke up” immediately after losing consciousness, as far as she figured. She had seen the lingering light of the setting sun creep across her ceiling before blacking out. The light seemed more stagnant now, but it was no darker. She couldn’t see anyone pitying her at the edge of the bed anymore, thankfully, so none of the others must have come back yet. The pink creeper wasn’t even in sight either, which was a big breath of fresh air. 

If Dusty, you know, breathed anymore. 

Which she didn’t. 

_Fuck._

_Well, better try this now that I don’t have the geek squad hovering over me_, Dusty thought, mustering the strength to sit up. Seeing how easy that was, she’d then consider getting up to try walking. She took a fake breath in, counted to three, then tried springing her torso up. _Half_. That was her first thought. Her right shoulder, right arm, and her head all managed to get a solid few inches of air. Her whole left stayed behind. There was a moment of panic. _I’m fucked. I blacked out, had a stroke or something, and now my left side is limp. That’s it. Half of me is flaccid. I’m gonna have to hold up half my mouth when I drink, or it’ll slip out like that gross shit with Two-Face. _

Then she turned to the side. Anchoring her to the bed was the elastic pink basket case herself, asleep for whatever reason. That made more sense. She only felt her grip now that she was focused on it. Spinel felt soft. 

Dusty wanted to headbutt her, for the brief panic attack. Before she had the chance to make that great decision, Spinel’s eyes fluttered open. They almost seemed to glow. She stared at Dusty’s face for a couple minutes. Neither said anything. Finally, Spinel smiled softly. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Spinel said what humans said affectionately in the movies. 

“I wasn’t asleep. I think I blacked out,” Dusty said. 

“More like you _pinked_ out.” Spinel giggled. 

Dusty groaned. Apparently, the Doctor was wrong: she very much could feel pain. Her attention went back to the tight coil around her arm and shoulder. “Anyway, you long was I out for? I pass out for like a few minutes and you cling to my arm?” 

Spinel turned her head, seemingly confused. “What do you mean? You were out for an hour before I came in.” 

“It couldn’t have been an hour. The sun was setting, but it’s still light in here.” The blinds were still shut by the Doctor, but the amount of light in the room was unmistakably the same. 

Spinel now looked _concerned_. Gross. Dusty hated that look. “Dusty, it’s late. It’s almost pitch dark in here.” 

Great. She was a fucking pink cat or something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be longer than this one, and also hopefully the most impactful. It's already finished and will be coming out in hopefully just a few days, accompanied by a link to the first art for the fic by my amazing boyfriend! 
> 
> Here's the song for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uXHaVENo6E
> 
> I definitely really appreciate this musician's sound and there will be more songs from them that I will use to represent Dusty. Not just the validity of the title, and the mood of the song, but the way that the musician's work in general blends Eastern and Western musical culture in a way that I think represents Dusty as well.


	14. Other Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait! My boyfriend and I fucked up our arms by being dumbasses at the gym, so it took him a long time to draw the Dusty art. But it's up now on the blog for this story, pink-spirals, and at the end of the chapter! 
> 
> Also this is a drama one, so haha feel like shit.

Measuring the passing of time accurately had become almost impossible for Dusty to do by herself. Her slow eyes kept pace well enough with the sun’s light, though she had stopped seeing it directly — Spinel kept the curtains closed, as instructed. Dusty learned if it was night or day by the subtle change of hue on the walls. It had become harder to notice shadows. She didn’t know why. 

She planned to count days by the passing of meals, but her stomach became a pit that fed from its own emptiness. Dusty blew chunks every time Spinel tried to feed her more than a scrap. Which she had mixed feelings about. Yes, of course, she’d forever be excluded from one of her previous greatest pleasures in life — a chilling reminder of her own half-life humanity. But, on the bright side, Spinel could never force her to play “here comes the airplane” again. Dusty took the good with the bad. 

Soup seemed the easiest thing to keep down. Though only the really liquidy kind, which Dusty fucking hated. She’d been reduced to a meal a day if she _felt_ like it. But even then it wasn’t really per day, exactly. She couldn’t keep track of time, and Spinel didn’t think in terms of Earth rotations. Their traits combined mixed the days together like blood in water. 

Then, there were the blackouts. Seemingly without reason, Dusty would lose consciousness from time to time. She couldn’t recall Lars ever passing out, dropping his gage-wearing, fluffy-mohawked face into a mixing bowl or something. One of her “unique” symptoms. She played it off casually to Spinel, but in reality it kinda freaked her the fuck out sometimes. She’d caved once and asked if Steven was busy. He had been, and after further deliberation with herself she’d decided an extra dose of tears probably wouldn’t fix her problems. 

Time today was ticking by especially slow for Dusty. She’d “woken up” from a blackout minutes before. She must have been out for a while, cause the color on the ceiling changed. What time was it? She checked her hand, then the ceiling, and back again. The colors matched. Must be twilight. But, was it sundown, or sunrise? 

Dusty chuckled. She wanted to tear all her skin off. Would it grow back? Would it still be pink? Was it worth a shot? She could wiggle her toes. She might be able to reach the kitchen. There were knives in the cupboard. Or would a vegetable peeler be better? Did she even own one of those? She remembered using one, once. Were her hands smaller in that memory? 

Getting up was one thing. Sneaking past Spinel was another. Dusty had the vague sense that the overprotective gem wouldn’t allow such an experiment. 

How lame. 

How much would skinning herself alive hurt? Would it hurt at all? She imagined it would feel bad, regardless. Uncomfortable. Dusty started to feel sick. Did her color fade when she was sick? She couldn’t tell. She’d need a mirror to see her face. Maybe she could get up for that reason. Then again, Spinel would probably just pick her up and put her back in bed. She liked touching Dusty too much. 

How hot would her showers have to be now? Or a bath? Maybe boiling. 

Dusty stared at her skin. If she stared too long, it started to itch. Was that a physical problem, or was she losing her mind? Should she even bother Lars about it? He was no help at all, generally. Eventually she noticed her wandering hand tracing the back of her head. The scar. She could only tell where it was by a faint indent at its center. She was told before that it was larger than that though, the white cut itself. 

Dusty had been told a lot of things about that wound. She went over them again in her head. They still didn’t make any sense, unless she accepted 0.0000001 percent odds. What were the theories again? Meteorite, underwater volcanoes, and, what was that last one? Ah, yes. 

Swallows with coconuts. 

Well, she had another theory for why she was now pastel and nerveless. She bit her lip, pushing her focus back to her scar, sliding her practiced index and middle finger up and down its length. 

It had been impossible to even detect the indent at first with her dead nerves. That had made her feel sick at the time, losing awareness of her own body; but gradually she’d trained herself to notice the shifting in motion of her hand. Dusty felt things differently now — she had to be cleverer about it. She had to press on it hard. Was it like the soft spot on a baby’s head? Was she gonna squish her brains and die? 

Dusty pressed harder. 

It had some affect, since the light of the room began to fade faster than her boredom would have allowed. She smiled. Blacking out was almost welcomed now. She couldn’t move. Why bother being awake? 

The door swung open. Almost like a window, because with it came back all the just-fleeting light. Dusty frowned. Spinel, on the other hand, gave her a grin and a wave. Dusty didn’t have the energy for this. For Spinel, on the other hand, this was the highlight of her day. Dusty just tried to look past her into the wall. It wasn’t working, the blackness wouldn’t come. 

———————————————————

Spinel brightened at first at the sight of Dusty. Her enthusiasm dimmed, however, as after Dusty’s initial glance of acknowledgment, her best friend diverted her energy to glaring at the space beside where Spinel was standing. She figured she should say something. Lately, Dusty seemed to just stare at her skin and blackout. Spinel decided she needed to inject some positivity. 

“You look nice,” Spinel said, offering a small smile. 

“What?” Dusty’s eyes remained where they were, like she was responding to a ghost. Still, Spinel persevered. 

“Pink, I mean. It suits you.”

For another minute, Dusty just stared at the door, past her roommate. Her gaze was so intense, Spinel wondered if the door was about to catch fire. Her expression remained unchanged, an unsettling blend of hollow and intense — an empty bucket strapped with razor blades. Or some other Earth thing. Dusty’s eyes then slid their focus over to Spinel’s. Dusty glared, and then spoke. 

“Fuck you.” 

Spinel took a step back, like something had physically pushed her. “W-What?” 

Dusty sat up now. She gripped the bedsheets tightly, fists and arms and shoulders shaking. _“Fuck you,”_ she repeated, with more venom. “I’m a fucking zombie, in case you haven’t noticed. Sorry, quick definition: the moaning, rotting things you kill so many of in your stupid fucking games.” 

Spinel tried to interject. “I’m sorry, I just meant—“ 

“But there’s that, I guess,” Dusty interrupted. “We match now! I’m so glad you gave me this new perspective.” Every word was a punch in the face. Every word Spinel hoped would peter out her human’s interest and she’d return her tired, now spiteful eyes to the paint-peeled door. 

“That’s not what I was saying!” Spinel tried not to sound as desperate as she was. 

“What were you saying? I’m curious.” 

Dusty probably wasn’t sincerely curious. 

“Just that you look nice! You looked nice before and you look nice now! That’s all!” 

“Well, thank_ fuck_. I can’t go an hour without blacking out and I still feel blood on my neck, but at least I look nice.” Then she muttered, “Glad someone’s happy about it.” 

Spinel clenched _her_ fists now. “I’m _not_ ‘happy’ about this.” 

Dusty laughed bitterly. “Is that so?” 

Spinel realized at that moment that there was something Dusty wasn’t saying, and at any moment could be saying. Something Spinel _really_ didn’t want said. She had to defuse the situation. The room felt colder, darker. She spoke without thinking, leaking vulnerability. “Can I hug you? It feels cold in here.” She internally cringed at how helpless she sounded. 

Dusty narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t know.” 

_This is why ya think before ya speak, Spinel... _

A desperate foot pressed forward, audibly scraping the floor, blending tired wood with a soft squeak. Narrowed eyes shot open, wide in panic. Dusty_ lurched_ back into the headstand, hands out to shield herself. “Don’t come near me!” she yelled. There was fear. There was anger. There wasn’t any joy, amusement; there weren’t feelings of adoration, or needing. Spinel felt longing when she moved forward and Dusty betrayed its opposite when she recoiled back. 

There was a nauseating pause for both of them, the kind of stillness that itches bones and tightens the throat. Dusty was supposed to be numb. So why, she wondered, could she feel _so much_ right then? 

After a bit, Dusty drew herself up. No closer to the bed’s edge, no closer to her beyond its end, but upright enough to mimic some imaginary calmness she could attempt to imposter. She drew in a long, empty breath. 

Spinel was still frozen in her moment. If she so much as blinked she feared the dark spots would overtake her and she’d do something she couldn’t take back. What was happening on the bed? Had Dusty moved? How long had they both stayed still? Did that mean..? Had Spinel won something? Dusty’s mouth opened. All Spinel’s thoughts quieted. 

“I think... I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I think you should leave for a bit, maybe...” 

Some of the words faded into nothing, just muffled into low pitch gurgling, like Spinel was dunking in and out of water — sentences like waves, some which overtook her consciousness, threatened to drown her. 

“... someplace to live. Steven has this school: he and Connie told me about it when you were in the other room yesterday. There are other gems, houses, a warp thing — everything you could need. Maybe it would be...” 

High tide. That’s what Dusty called it. She was so smart. Some sentences just washed right over Spinel’s head. She looked up, to see if her pigtails were floating in the water. Dusty looked confused. She slowed, and so too did the water lower. Spinel could hear her human’s breathing. Dusty was so forgetful, and didn’t realize she didn’t have to do that. Besides that, the room felt so quiet. Dusty’s mouth started moving again. 

“I’ll visit, once I get back on my feet, I promise. I just need time, okay? I promise, we’ll always be friends. I just don’t think this will work, like we’ve been doing.” 

Spinel felt deafened again as a vocal typhoon ripped past her head. Or was it a hurricane? Dusty explained the difference before. She couldn’t remember at the moment. 

“So, for now, let’s just—“ 

“I love you!” Spinel blurted out. _Bad. Big mistake. Awful timing. I just need her to stop. _

“Spinel, listen, now really isn’t the ti—“ 

“Ever since that first night, I knew you were special. Every moment made it clearer.” She kept going. _Gross. This is gross. This isn’t what you planned. Just... Dusty won’t stop talking. She’s being hysterical. They’ve made her hysterical. _

“I don’t think you should—“ 

“You made me laugh, and smile. Even more than I did with her. When our games ended, it wasn’t like I was put away for next time. I just got to be with you. I don’t think I ever told you how much that meant to me.” _Shut up. Shut up. Please, Dusty, just shut the fuck up. I hate myself. I can’t keep going. This isn’t the beach. The moon isn’t out. I haven’t hired the band. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Just shut..._

“C’mon, Noodle...” 

A pink fist splintered the wood of the headboard, a foot from Dusty’s head. 

“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT! NOT NOW, NOT WHILE YOU’RE THROWING ME AWAY!” 

Dusty shrunk back to the other side of the bed, nearly falling off its side. She looked so small again, like the night she spoke on the phone to that woman. Spinel’s fist shriveled to a shaking hand, which slid and fell onto an awaiting pillow. She hadn’t meant to do that, everything had just gone black. She didn’t have the energy to reel herself back in, and Dusty just looked back and forth between the gem’s hand and eyes, which were beginning to leak tears. As Spinel fell apart, Dusty scrambled to recover any scrap of resolve she could find. What she managed to gather had to do. She spoke with a shaking voice the sentence Spinel had dreaded for days. 

“Did you kill me?” 

“I...”

“Spinel, please...”

“N-No... It wasn’t supposed to... I couldn’t... You don’t get it! You can’t understand yet!” 

Dusty looked taken aback. She looked sick. Her throat quivered and her head flicked up once, twice. Spinel recognized the motion from when the newly-pinkened human puked on the beach. She leveled out, keeping her head steady and what little was in her stomach down. “You’re the meteor?”

“W-What?”

“You... You killed me?” 

“No!” Spinel stomped her foot onto the floor, too hard — there was a loud crack. “You’re here, aren’t you? I made certain! I knew where Steven would be. I was sure you’d be okay!” 

That didn’t seem to reassure Dusty. She only looked more horrified. She began to hyperventilate. Again, forgetting the whole breath thing. “You fucking _planned_ it? Oh... Oh fuck. That’s why you went out all those days. I drank the milk!”

“The milk..?”

“The milk, Spinel! Your fucking... _MURDER MILK!”_ Dusty began flailing her arms, for emphasis. “I drank that shit even though it was skim, to be nice! And it was your ‘Kill Contemplation Juice’!” 

Spinel’s arm automatically reeled itself back in, as she worked herself up. She needed to keep up with Dusty’s hand flailing if she was to win this argument. “MOVIES!” she blurted out. 

“What?!”

“Every fucking movie we ever watched — like, half of them — presents death as this _awful, tragic_ thing! But, as a human you’re just supposed to deal with it! Now you don’t have to! I gave you an OUT...” She flailed her arms up, “...OF DEATH!”

“Did you... Did you kill me because we watched ‘What Dreams May Come’?” 

There was a pause. 

“NO!”

“Spinel...”

“THERE WERE OTHER REASONS!”

“For fuck’s sake, Spinel, I can’t _breathe_.”

“Overrated anyway! You will never wither away, get shriveled, and slow down!”

“I can’t eat _food!”_

“A-Admittedly a bummer, but you never have to worry about going hungry! You complained about that a lot whenever money or whatever came up!” 

“I can’t even take a shit!” 

“Wonderful! Less time you have to spend behind that door, away from me!”

Dusty looked like she was about to scream. She scrambled out of bed, getting her foot caught in the sheets and nearly tripping out. She began to hobble past Spinel, who reached out for her. “Don’t touch me! Not right now, for fuck’s sake!”

Spinel retreated her grasp, and Dusty slipped by through the door, half limping and half tripping. Spinel turned toward her. “Where are you going?!” 

Dusty somehow made it past the hallway, past the couch, past the kitchen and approaching the front door. All the while, Spinel followed right behind her. As she hurried, Dusty yelled back, “Anywhere else! Fuck it, you can stay here if you want, but I’m crashing elsewhere!”

“W-Where?! Just tell me where!” Spinel’s speech was gaining momentum: Dusty was nearly at the end of the garden, almost reaching the warp pad.

Wait, that wasn’t correct. It was a door, right? 

“Telling you would kinda defeat the point! I don’t want you following me, knowing where I am, sniffing my hair, whatever the fuck! I’ll probably stay with one of my other friends—“

Spinel grabbed at Dusty’s arm and yanked her on impulse. And, half of Dusty _did_ go back towards her — her legs flew out from under her as her head fell into the screen door. Her forehead left a dent in the thin wood and its whole frame shook. Spinel panicked and shot her other arm out, wrapping it around Dusty’s waist and supporting her weight. The human groaned and lifted her free hand to her head. 

“Dusty, I’m so sorry! Are... Are you okay?” Spinel held her closer until their faces were inches apart. 

Dusty’s eyes flitted around the room. “I don’t... I feel dizzy. I... I can’t...” Her eyes rolled back and hid behind her shutting lids. She let out a groan and fell limp in Spinel’s arms. 

For a moment, Spinel almost fell back into a state of panicked sobbing. She had hurt the most important thing in her life, who now was still and heavy and as lifeless as she had been the day Spinel had carried her corpse around. A similar panic threatened to bubble up. 

Except, it didn’t. Dusty was quiet and still, yet the darkness in the corner of Spinel’s vision actually fled back. The itching at her legs faded. The room felt warm. A stillness overtook her, a disturbing calm. 

Dusty was in her arms. In the house. The door wasn’t being opened, she wasn’t leaving. For now, she was safe. Hurt, perhaps, but in a way that’d heal soon. Possibly the damage had healed already, and Dusty merely succumbed to a myriad of her other, non-physical human fragilities. Spinel studied her face: it looked peaceful. She laced her fingers into the soft organic hand she’d tugged seconds ago. Her thoughts stopped racing, and she had time to think. Her best friend had clearly been in hysterics, and now couldn’t be bothered by the _“other friends”_ she’d mentioned. Those same “friends” who’d put ideas in her head of Spinel leaving, living somewhere else. She was wrong after all: the house wasn’t safe either. They’d need someplace else, more secluded. 

Even as the thought occurred to her, the vines didn’t return, the darkness remained in hiding, since what she had to do surpassed her own comfort. What was it Dusty had mentioned?

A warp thing? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop. How was that? Make sure to comment how mad at me you are! And also follow the blog for updates/art or just to send me well-deserved hate! 
> 
> The blog: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/pink-spirals
> 
> Here's the song for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOjVjc5vJ6I


	15. Dusty Discovers Her Fursona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I wasn't satisfied with this chapter (still not super jazzed about parts of it). Thought about making it half of a larger chapter, but decided I'd taken too long already. Gonna try to make chapters longer from now on. Hopefully after this one.

Dusty couldn’t move her arms, but she couldn’t feel the tightness that constricted them either. Her legs sat folded beneath her, tucked in. Was she imagining tingling in her toes, or was she sitting on a vein? Trying to push her knees out forward didn’t work, more weight was on them than she’d assumed. From the sight of her biceps and elbows in the corner of her eyes, her hands must have been held up above her head. There was tingling in her fingers too. 

Was she tied up? 

Fingers wiggled until they hit upon something. Dusty knew that she had only because their movement stopped suddenly in a very flat direction. She slid her fingers upon the surface behind her head. She pushed hard — solid, immovable; at least immovable from the strength of her hands. Her head banging backwards revealed that it was immovable by more than just finger strength. 

Unfortunately, she hit the scar and went dizzy for a moment. 

Dusty closed her eyes tight and focused back on the surface behind her. She kept her fingers out straight as she could, so when they bent as they passed over something, she knew the flatness had ended into something else — a protrusion, a bump. She traced this bump as it bundled and then sprouted out into a very solid sliver of air that connected back to her wrists. Ah, she was tied to the surface behind her. It was thin, at least. If that meant anything. Back to the surface behind her, one last time. There had to be something else. 

Flat, flat, flat, flat, flat, flat. 

Then, a break. 

For a brief second, her fingers went back further. And then the restriction of surface returned with vengeance, and Dusty felt restriction of her finger’s motion in several dimensions. She could pull her finger back, but she could also move it in two directions, each growing tighter the more she traveled. She slid her fingers back and forth a couple of times, until pushing up in a direction allowed her finger to branch into another valley of tight solidity. 

A crack. She was fingering a substantial, miniature canyon in the barrier behind herself. Was it less solid than she thought? The crack was noted, but there was far more to consider. There was the sky, for example. It was nighttime, with a clearer, starrier sky than she’d ever seen. A few things stood out. Dusty was no astronomer — out of the two beach houses, hers wasn’t the one with the glass observatory on the top — but she did know that the moon normally didn’t have a heart-shaped hole in it. She also didn’t recognize one of the other celestial entities she saw, which almost looked like a planet.

Right, okay. She probably wasn’t in Beach City anymore. Or Earth. She scanned the horizon and noticed the black of the sky brighten to blue. That was familiar. Was that a sign of an atmosphere? She didn’t know any science, but blue skies meant air, right? She... She just remembered that she couldn’t check if there was air simply because she was still alive anymore. Which was more of a bummer than it sounded. 

What else did air do? 

Dusty decided she should try speaking. What should she say, though? “Hello” was too cliche, and pretty useless. She was tied to something in nowhere space, maybe she didn’t _want_ to talk to anybody there. 

“Cock and balls,” Dusty whispered, and she could hear herself say it, which meant noise, which meant air. She didn’t know why that relieved her, but it did. Besides the air and sky which lacked it, there were other things to note. Her surroundings were very ugly, like an plant graveyard. It looked like... 

_It’s an overgrown garden?_

Okay, it was an overgrown garden. And it was going to be very subtly detailed, but nevermind. There were dead flowers, a dirty fountain in which floated lily cadavers that the rose-tinted Dusty could not see, grimy footpaths and wilted grass that paralleled them and stood crooked and sickly and yellow. It was a place suspended carefully in the void of space that existed only to foster life, yet had been ravaged by the press of death’s kiss; or in one individual’s case, pelted by its rock. 

Dusty watched another light join the glow-filled sky. This one, however, was brief rather than timeless, and came from the garden itself. It was a sight she’d seen before, from the edge of Beach City, from Little Homeworld. A tower of light. She groaned. 

_Company. _

Company crept up nervously, scraped along leafless bushes. Company kept her squeaking to a minimum by dragging feet against the garden tiles, toeing the faded boarder between lawn and path. Company was pink. Company was getting closer. Company was staring. 

“Dusty,” Spinel said softly. “Good morning.” 

_Is it?_ Dusty wondered to herself. She couldn’t tell on account of no visible Sun. Also, she had been tied up by her murderer somewhere in the middle of space, likely galaxies from her home planet and any hope of rescue. So, she considered Spinel’s greeting pretty insensitive. She chose not to respond. 

Dusty stared at Spinel, hopefully in a vacant, cold sort of way, and not betraying any of her intense fear of her kidnapper/murderer. Regardless, Spinel smiled at her. 

“You don’t have to be scared. I promise I won’t hurt you.” 

“Any more, you mean?”_ Fuck. Hadn’t meant to say anything._ It was too late to stop. “Cause you’ve already killed me and given me a concussion, so you currently have a pretty bad record.” 

Spinel cringed, bit her lower lip, dug fingers into her arm, looked to the side — the whole nine yards. Dusty didn’t stop. 

“Or, maybe a great record? If this was a video game, I’m sure you’d be top tier.” 

The shivering pink gem’s discomfort worsened. Dusty almost smiled. She wanted to keep twisting the knife, to keep pushing and pushing, to make her captor feel just as shitty as she did. But as her eyes slid from quaking shoulders to clenched fists, she decided to be quiet again. It took a moment of her silence for Spinel to recover: eyes tightly shut and her mouth whispering something inaudible. Maybe she was counting to ten. Dusty remembered when she was a kid, being told to count to ten a lot: it never worked. 

She didn’t ever actually _do it,_ but still. 

Dusty hoped Spinel was less impulsive. She second-guessed that hope when she remembered the whole “killed and kidnapped” thing. However, closed palms soon opened and occupied themselves with cupping either of Spinel’s elbows as she hugged her chest. Finally, she opened her eyes, looked back at Dusty, and again, smiled. 

_Ugh. _

Spinel stepped forward a bit more, closing the gap of safety between the two of them. Dusty flinched back against the barrier, which thankfully was noticed, as the hesitant advancement ended as soon as it had begun. Spinel, having no where to go, instead spoke. 

“Do you need anything?” A simple question delivered with the same tone she’d carried all week, as if Dusty couldn’t ask for more than a glass of water or a comic book. 

_Eh, fuck it. _

“Pliers?” 

“Uhhhhh, no?”

“Chainsaw?”

“The thing from the horror movies? No.”

“Stick of dynamite?”

“As funny as the cartoons are, gonna be a no.”

“How about a blowtorch then?”

“Um, I don’t...”

“Just say ‘no’ for that one.” 

Spinel giggled. “Thanks for the tip.” 

_Fucking dammit._ Why was it so easy for Dusty to slip back into banter with Spinel? Well, she could cut that shit short easy enough. Opening wounds had always been easy for her. 

“There is one thing. Something you could go and do...” Dusty just briefly glimpsed up at Spinel, hopefully suggesting sincerity. The gem, for her part, almost erupted into excited contentment. 

“_Anything!_ B-Besides, you know...” She mouthed ‘Anything you could use to escape’ with her eyes, glance cast down to the left. 

“Yeah, could you go back to the beach, walk into the ocean, find the lowest solid surface on planet Earth, and just wait there till the end of time?” Dusty said it with the sincerest face she could muster. 

Spinel didn’t say anything for a bit. Her facial expression kept changing between a handful of unpleasant emotions. It ended on scared insecurity. When she spoke, her voice was wavering. “W-Why would you say that..?”

_Don’t say anything. _

“Nevermind, sorry. You’re right. I can... I can give you some s-space for a while...”

_This is what I wanted. _

Spinel’s scraping feet sounded louder than possible as she turned toward the warp pad, and their squeaking felt like fingers sliding across glass. 

“You don’t get to do that,” Dusty finally said. Spinel stopped walking and turned around too quickly, a hopeful and expectant look flashing on her face. “You don’t get to act sad and pathetic. You’re not a fucking kicked puppy — you kidnapped me, after I tried to leave you for _killing me_.” The hopefully expectant look deflated. Spinel turned back toward the warp pad. She mumbled a one-word apology. 

“But,” Dusty froze her in her tracks again, though this time the gem didn’t turn around. “I could use a pillow. My ass feels numb... Er than usual. The new usual.” 

Spinel hesitated. 

“You said anything,” Dusty pushed.

Spinel turned fully around this time, and reached up slowly toward the inverted heart-shaped jewel on her chest. “I guess I did,” she said, giving a small, more-than-hesitant smile. Suddenly, her chest drew Dusty’s attention, and since she was flat as a board, it was in a different way than a girl’s chest normally did. Glowing as soon as the gloved hand neared it, if only for a moment, before Spinel appeared to summon a blue throw pillow out of pure light. The light from the jewel faded back to normal as soon as the pillow was given clear shape and texture, and Spinel began to resume approaching Dusty as if nothing she’d done was worth any acknowledgement. 

As Spinel bent down by her side, Dusty struggled as to whether or not she should look her captor in the face, or ignore her altogether. Ignoring her altogether was impossible, and would just advertise Dusty’s fear and powerlessness. She looked over at Spinel’s face, which was at that moment flushed red: she was blushing, heavily. 

“Uh, what?” Dusty asked. 

Spinel’s eyes met her’s for the briefest instant and grew the blush to crimson from rose. She looked away hastily, and in an attempt to get up, fell over on her side, lowered from eye level with Dusty to beneath her. This seemed to make her embarrassment worse. Spinel stuttered. “I-I, uh...” 

“What?” Dusty repeated. 

“My hand... I accidentally touched your butt...” 

_Is she fucking serious?_

“Are you fucking serious?”

Spinel seemed to shrink into the dead grass. Given her abilities, she might have actually. “S-Sorry! It was an accident!” 

Dusty shook her head. “No, I mean... That’s not what’s stupid about this. I’m tied to a fucking... A column, right?” 

“It’s technically a pillar.”

“Fucking _whatever_ it is, I’m tied to it, and you’re blushing like a love-struck idiot because you fondled my ass?” 

Spinel shot up, a mortified look on her face. “I did _not_ ‘fondle’ you! My hand accidentally grazed your... Your...”

“My ass?”

“Your heinie!”

Dusty groaned. “Holy _fuck_, just skin me now, or kill me and wear my teeth as a necklace, or whatever the fuck you’re planning!” 

The gem shook her head. “I’m not gonna do any of those things!” 

“Then why am I here?” It was a fair question. 

Spinel turned away. “Um, uh, because... Because...” 

It struck Dusty at that moment that her captor had no idea how to answer it. 

“You can’t be serious. So, you don’t have any sort of plan?”

“There’s a plan!”

“Uh huh, and what’s that?”

“You...” Spinel gave a nervous smile. “...stay here?”

“Is that it?” 

“No! I can bring over games! And movies! Your foldable TV works without a plug-thingy, so I’ll bring that, and we can watch those shows, and a lot of your games can be played on it, right? Maybe we can figure out how to make the larger ones work too, e-eventually!” Spinel looked around as she spoke, not giving Dusty a chance to interrupt. “I know it’s not a lot to look at now, but I can bring over your bed, so you can have something comfy to sleep on, and I’ll bring more clothes. Maybe the sofa too, for the movies!” Spinel started smiling wider as she spouted off her fantasies. Eventually, though, she slowed, and turned to Dusty, expecting a reply. 

Dusty stared at her. 

Spinel continued. “Do... Do you have any ideas? You know how human stuff works more than me, of course.” 

Dusty kept staring. 

“D-Dusty?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes..?” Spinel replied, hesitantly. 

“So, what? Everything stays the same, but now I’m in space?”

“I guess...”

“In the middle of nowhere, alone?”

“Not alone.”

“Oh, I mean, of course. You have to make sure my restraints are tightened.” 

“Dusty...”

“You know what? I’m sorry for stopping you — I do need time alone. You don’t have to walk into the ocean, but please leave.” Dusty looked into Spinel’s eyes for a reaction. 

She took it surprisingly well. Spinel nodded, breaking off eye contact. Dragging herself up to her feet seemed to take a minute longer than necessary, like the gem was in a fog — all her movements seemed sluggish. Dusty was worried she’d spend the next few hours walking to the warp pad in slow motion; but, as soon as she stood, Spinel marched away. Must have gotten self-conscious. Eventually Dusty lost sight of the dark pink alien as she passed behind the dirty fountain. 

Dusty sighed in relief as soon as she left. Just her and the stars now. 

It took about a minute for relief to die, and boredom to sprout from its ripening carcass. Dusty tried shifting in her seat, but her restraints were tighter than she’d realized — she only managed to push the pillow further from the pillar, which meant she could move her arms even less. She began banging her head back, again and again. There was something almost satisfying to the dull thud she felt from concussion-inducing impact. She was hoping for a blackout, passing the time, getting out of the moment that was now by any means necessary. 

It was around the thirtieth or so bang that she felt the dampness on her neck. Dusty cringed to the familiar sensation of her skull leaking out onto her back. Was she crazy? Was she imagining it again? She certainly _could_ have been bleeding, but how’d she be able to even feel it? She felt faint at that thought. Maybe the blackout was finally coming. She just wanted to be in bed, the place she’d begun to despise; she just wanted to be home.

What felt like a droplet hit her between the shoulder blades. Dusty screamed, loud. Her head felt hot and fuzzy, light and full of cotton. She felt she was underwater again — sunlight spilling through the ocean towards her sinking self as that self spilled out into the ocean as well, becoming a part of it. Sunlight seeming fainter, either from her growing distance from the surface, or her adding blood to the depths. In that numb, thick moment, her scream seemed to cut space itself. And as Dusty noticed the glimmering of bright light which appeared in front of her, banishing the ocean from her vision, she realized it had. 

Before her, suddenly, was a shimmering oval three meters tall, the edges of which crackled and hummed. It was the strangest thing to seem familiar, but it was. It reminded her of home, of Beach City, of Steven and his family, of...

...Of his magical pink lion. Had Dusty... Screamed a portal into existence? She bent her head, to see if anything stood behind it. True enough, although dozens of yards away, another white oval, dwarfed by the distance, hovered in the air, right beside the...

The warp pad. Dusty tried to shove her body forward, taut against the bindings around her wrists, before falling back, twisting her body and hitting the pillar again with her head. The numbness grew worse. The darkness started creeping in, just as she was wanting it to leave. 

And then, right before she fell limp, she saw a sliver of marble fall and crack on the pathway by her crumpled body. Dusty used the last of her energy to look up at the pillar, now splintering rock shards. Had she done that, with her head? 

_Then_ Dusty blacked out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine a dope song here. 
> 
> Also don't forget to comment! It means a lot to me!


	16. Problem Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be much longer, but what was once one ultra long chapter is now two decently sized ones. Huzzah. The next chapter was finished today, but still needs a bit more time to edit.

Dusty couldn’t move her arms, but she couldn’t feel the tightness that constricted them either. She sat across from a shattered pillar; which, unlike the identical (though not broken) floating pillars around it, had been jammed into the ground like a tent spike. Her legs sat folded beneath her, tucked in. Was she imagining tingling in her toes, or was she sitting on a...

A...

Wait.

She’d done this before. 

Looking down, Dusty recognized she was part of a similar set up: tied to a pillar, nailed into the ground. The pillar she’d cracked was absent one proximate glowing oval, so she assumed, hopefully, that Spinel hadn’t seen it. She also noticed she was now further from the warp pad than she’d been the first time. Dusty smiled. Nice to know she had made somebody nervous. Why was she ever in sight of the warp pad to begin with? There was plenty of stuff to tie her to that was further away from it. 

While thankful for her apparent solitude upon waking up, Dusty gave herself a few hesitant minutes before she started screaming again. Her first attempts got nothing. She tried screaming in the same way as she had before, but that didn’t seem to work. Dusty wasn’t much for making loud noises, at least not sissy ones, so even in the emptiness of space she felt self-conscious about cutting loose with her vocal cords. 

That self-consciousness soon died, and by the time her privacy ended, Dusty was making concentrated whale noises in an attempt to rip space. She’d already done humpback and blue whale, or whatever it was that’s in that talking fish movie. She’d graduated to sperm by the time she was interrupted. Guess Dusty wasn’t able to...

Finish. 

Heh.

Dusty was interrupted by laughing. She didn’t bother looking up at Spinel, who was bent over, shaking with laughter. 

_Yuck it the fuck up_, Dusty thought to herself bitterly.

It took a solid minute for Spinel to knock it off. She wiped a tear from her eye. “What, uh... What are you up to?”

“You think this is funny?”

“Yep,” Spinel replied without hesitation. “I really, really do.”

“Well, just you wait. This is just part one of my plan to escape. You’ll be left in the dust.” 

“The dust, eh?” Spinel giggled again. 

“Won’t be _laughing_ then!” Dusty growled. She gave the creepishly happy gem a glare that swept her up and down. The pink weirdo was bouncing on her heels, with both hands behind her back. She was looking back at the human expectantly. “So, uh, what do you want, exactly?” 

Spinel shook her head, amused. “I’d brought ya something to keep us entertained, but it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.” She let out another snicker. Dusty rolled her eyes. Pulled out from behind her back, clutched tightly by dark pink gloves was Spinel’s assorted box of junk. Inside the beat-up cardboard box was a few stacks of board games, two decks of playing cards, a couple stuffed animals Dusty couldn’t even remember unpacking; there were numerous video game cartridges and at least one matching handheld console she could see, and a messy pile of construction paper with markers and crayons tossed in. It was like a loot crate designed by a six-year-old. Spinel presented it with a proud grin. 

Dusty stared at it for a very long time in complete silence. She blinked as slowly as she could manage, sometimes one eyelid at a time, to really send it home. It helped in this instance that she didn’t need to breathe. Ironically, the hard-light projection standing before her was having more difficulty keeping chill, the slow, quiet hollowness of the dragging minutes pulling at Spinel’s brain like Yellow Fire Ninja Guy’s grappling hook. It became too much. 

“Uh,” Spinel began. 

“Oh, you can’t tell?” Dusty finally met her stare. “I’m cumming in my pants right now. Just very quietly.”

“That’s gross. You don’t have to be cra—"

“Orgasming — intense, silent ejaculations from this phenomenal treasure trove you’ve delivered unto me.” 

“I know it might not _look _like much at first, but—"

“I was an atheist, but here, in your hands? I’ve certainly found God.” 

A pink Jester’s boot stomped the ground. “Maybe if you could use your imagination a little more — not everything fun has to come from a screen!”

“Okay, boomer.” 

Dusty didn’t so much “feel” the crayon hit her forehead, but she did watch it crack between her eyes and limply bounce off into her lap. 

“Coloring it is!” Spinel sang. 

———————————————————

“Can you pass me the blue?”

“Can I have the red then? I’m trying to draw every Earth flower.” 

“I still need the red.”

“You’ve been using the red for for_ever!”_

“It’s integral to this composition.”

“What are you even coloring?” Spinel peered over, stretching her neck around and above Dusty’s shoulder. 

“Me, but without skin.”

“_Diamond Authority!_ Why is it so _detailed?!”_

“I blew a couple grand on art school.”

“I can’t believe this...” 

“Yeah, okay. It was definitely more than a couple.” 

Spinel brought a garden hose-length hand to cover her mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick...” 

Dusty looked up at her quizzically, eyes trailing the length of Spinel’s neck. “Do you think I’d have a running start? Would your puke need to load?” 

———————————————————

It took a few minutes after Spinel ruined a perfectly good, dead rosebush, but eventually the two resumed coloring. Spinel settled for portraying foliage in the meantime, since from what she remembered, there were no greens in the human body. With what she’d seen Dusty eat, especially not in hers. The human in question looked back up. 

“Black, please.” 

The gem answering did so cautiously: “What for?”

“I’ve decided to make it layered, like a diorama or something. I’m onto the guts now, and I’m starting with my liver.”

Spinel narrowed her eyes. “Human livers aren’t black.”

“Okay, Dahmer,” Dusty replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty sure mine is.” 

Spinel stared at her for a moment. 

“How... How was I what killed you?”

———————————————————

Dusty flipped through her sheets of construction paper, wax-stained and crinkling. She saw blue line-rooted lungs, shriveled, and wondered why she still had them. The heart was a blur, as messy as it was now slow, like someone was performing CPR on her through molasses. She’d almost left her stomach a blank, black space; instead, Dusty had drawn a small cartoon trampoline where it used to be, floating above the tip of her intestines, sealed shut by a twisty tie. A “broken faucet” sign was hung from her bladder and a plunger was stuffed down her sphincter. 

“That’s gross.” 

Dusty hadn’t noticed Spinel right next to her, on hands and knees, having crawled over to her (crayons and crawling — maybe Spinel had a kink). She was too numb to feel shocked by the sudden interruption. Spinel’s pink eyes were glued to the twisted flip book in Dusty’s lap. 

The “human” smiled. “I learned this in therapy when I was little. Supposed to draw the parts of yourself the way you feel they are, in your mind or something.”

“That sort of makes sense.”

Dusty nodded. “When I was a kid, I would draw it all warm and fuzzy, real gay rainbow shit, and when I finished, I’d eat it.”

Spinel snorted, and bumped Dusty with her elbow. She could feel the impact. “You’d _eat_ paper and crayon?” 

Dusty bumped back. “I wasn’t a savage! I used scented markers and ate those, like a true sophisticate.” 

They both laughed at that. A noise that hit the acoustics of that shell of a garden pretty well, considering. Their sounds grew louder gradually off the pillars and walls, like each wave was a poke to some long-sleeping thing that had forgotten its purpose. Dusty’s petered out sooner, and she tightened her fingers around the edges of the paper. “I used to think it’d make me feel better on the inside, I guess.” 

Spinel stopped too and became quiet, just listening intently to what Dusty said. 

“I made one for my mom once. Maybe I thought pretty guts made from bleached paper and raspberry red ink would do her better than the shitty insides she’d been stuck with.” 

“What’d she do with it?” Spinel asked. 

Dusty scoffed. “She didn’t eat it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I figured.”

“Let’s see...” Dusty unfolded her legs, stretching them out in front of herself and letting the pile of pages rest between her knees, hands stuck out behind herself, palming the dead grass beneath her. It was nice to be untied, at least. “She gave them to the head doctor guy, and told him I had cracked the case, and was gonna steal his job.” 

“Bet that scared him,” Spinel said, giggling. 

Dusty smirked. “My mom: a boss bitch to her dying breath.” 

Another sensation, almost foreign now — a soft resistance pressed down on Dusty’s right hand. She looked over. A gloved mitt was lightly constraining her. 

Spinel was holding her hand. 

Dusty studied the overlapping hands for a moment, before pulling hers away. The gem looked hurt for a split second, before swallowing her obvious disappointment. 

“Want to know another thing I picked up from therapy?” 

Spinel nodded, hesitantly. 

“Apparently, I seek comfort in abusers.”

Pigtails almost cut the air with how fast the head they clung to shook. Spinel stuttered her words out. “I’m..! I’m not—“

“This is the part when you give me alone time.” 

Dusty stopped looking over to her. She kept her eyes on the top page in front of her, while she tried to mute everything in her peripheral. It’s weird, but she was actually starting to get good at that. Made her focus sharper too. Useful in that moment, but she still couldn’t turn her ears off. There was sniffling, scrapping, heavy breathing, fist clenching. She almost smirked to the sounds, and returning constriction, of being tied back to the pillar, like a fucking dog. At least she’d been given a longer leash. Then, she heard fading squeaking, and, finally, the chime of a distant warp pad. 

Still, Dusty kept her eyes on the middle of the page, drawn in like she was a pubic hair caught in a drain’s whirlpool. She watched the brittle ribs which guarded her shriveled lungs, loop back around at their ends, and pierce bloodily the center of her chest. She rubbed her fingers on that center page, hoping now to scrap some of that glossy red away. The bleeding center which laid now by her ankles, each drag of color and speck of dust crisply, clearly visible to her eyes. 

A messy, pink heart, hemorrhaging wax. 

———————————————————

Isolation now at least meant something. Dusty didn’t try to bash herself unconscious or count the stars. Time alone in the garden now meant testing out her new pink body. She had been able to develop her sight easily enough, but besides that, her testing required privacy. 

To start things slow, she was punching the marble pathway by her pillar. It quickly hurt. Not as much as punching marble repeatedly with all one’s strength normally would, but about as much as repeatedly punching drywall. Dusty now had experience punching both. She heard a crack. Sudden and heavy. It sounded dry. The pain hadn’t spiked. Dusty smiled as she checked the bloodstained, broken marble beside herself, and as she watched her purpled fingers unswell and lighten back to pink. 

_Just like anime, _she thought. 

———————————————————

Dusty tried screaming again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Despite screaming at least, like, seven times, no magical portals appeared. On top of that, she felt nothing. No surge of energy, no mysterious tapping into some invisible well of potential. Nothing. Except a sore throat. Though, the second she stopped screaming, she felt that begin to heal as well. 

Dusty paced back and forth in frustrated silence, as far as her leash would allow. Every time she felt its tugging on her throat, she felt compelled to snap her own neck. She wondered if that could kill her. She wondered if she could even die. Dusty stomped on a wilted hibiscus. 

Another tug. 

What led her to this? Some unstable gay alien’s pet on a garden in space? Dusty hadn’t made many _fantastic_ choices while on Earth, but she figured she’d just go back to court-mandated therapy, or rehab, or get back together with Liz. Was this even her fault, or was this some cosmic bad luck? Usually with Dusty, it was both. 

Another tug. 

What mistakes had she made lately? She trusted Spinel. A lot. Never making that fucking mistake again. She’d confronted Spinel. That apparently doesn’t work. Another fuck-up noted. Maybe it was her fault for not throwing this homicidal bone to the magical alien Adam’s Family when she should have. When would have...

Another tug. 

... _BEEN_ a good idea? Dusty should not have confronted Spinel alone. She should have had Steven do it — that little weirdo_ loved_ emotional baggage, and unlicensed therapy sessions. Maybe that would have been a good time to ditch her. Hm. No, the damage was done. Free and pink is still pink. Earlier would have been better.

Another tug. 

Those days when Spinel was leaving all the time. Apparently also plotting Dusty’s own murder. She could have played it off by arguing that since Spinel seemed so independent now, she could find her own place to live. Hm. No, they were too friendly then. Spinel would have known something was up. Besides, she was probably already set on...

Another tug. 

... _already fucking set_ on killing Dusty, so, that wouldn’t work. Ugh, it was gross thinking they used to be friends. It was grosser wondering if they still were. Spinel acted the same, or tried to. Maybe she wondered if they played enough games and laughed enough, everything would be fine. For Dusty’s own sanity, she had to socialize with _someone. _

Dusty stopped the second before the leash went taut. She stood there, motionless at the border of her territory, hesitantly pondering the thought that just flashed in her mind. 

Spinel might be right.

The thought terrified Dusty. Maybe the alien knew enough about humans to recognize that this little captive bullshit might work. Dusty would need social interaction to avoid... Well, whatever happened to Spinel, quite frankly. At least until she went back to Earth and could talk to literally _anyone_ else. 

Unless... 

Unless, Spinel also knew that, and Dusty was never going home. 

She started pacing, again. There’s no way that dumbass could actually intend to keep her here, right? She couldn’t just stay on some asteroid in space. Yeah! She needed food, and... No, no she didn’t. Okay, she needed... Well, she didn’t feel thirsty either. 

There was always shitting! Which she... didn’t need...

To do either. 

Tug. 

Dusty felt her heart beat. It was rare enough that she’d started to notice it. At that moment, she felt like she imagined her Dad’s old, shitty Cadillac must have felt like when he jumpstarted it. It felt like someone had drop-kicked her ribcage from the inside. That feeling stayed. It cracked on her chest and fell back, pooling in her lungs. She felt a drag on it — a five-point tug of war that had pierced fish hooks into her chest and begun to lightly pull. Up, her throat. Down, her legs. And to either side, her arms. The feeling began to fade. 

Dusty decided to see what she could do with it, and let the tugging from her right win. It was like the sensation of releasing her bladder — the closest she could get to that now anyway. She felt a current shoot through her arm, and aimed the palm of her hand directly at that _fucking_ pillar. 

Both tugging stopped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't think of a song for this either, fuck. 
> 
> Make sure to comment! Really motivates me!


	17. Salty and Sour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than I had promised, but this is the second half of the last chapter that I decided worked better on its own.

Human stuff was always so heavy. 

Spinel _hated_ carrying those stupid paper bags, but the last time she’d tried putting a group of anything in her gem, she was stuck trying to sort the mess out for hours. She wasn’t a Pearl, so management definitely was _not_ her specialty. Still, the image of Dusty seeing her favorite snacks all remembered perfectly was too good to pass up, and put a pep in the pink gem’s step. 

But, of course, the Bad Thoughts had to butt in and try to ruin it all. 

_She’s not going to forgive you for killing her, no matter what you do._

Spinel noticed a rain-faded game of hopscotch on the concrete outside Fishstew. She lazily did the steps as the voice got louder, clearer, and the light around her began to fade. 

_She’d leave you if she could. She hates you now. Only thing keeping her from getting galaxies away from you is the dog lease you stuck to her neck. _

A bag of sour gummy worms spilled from the top of the right bag when Spinel stuttered on the final step. She stared at it blankly while the sunlight around her seemed to creep back. She waited while the voice did its work. 

_A _dog _leash, are you for real? That’s sick. Dusty isn’t a toy, like you were. _

“But, I...” Spinel muttered to herself, lost in the moment. 

_You need to let her go. _

“I just need a little time.”

_It’s the right thing to do._

“She might understand...” Spinel whispered desperately. 

“Hellooo?” Another voice cut through the clouds filling Spinel’s head, interrupting her debate. She looked up. A small hand held Dusty’s bag of sour gummy worms out to her. The hand was slender and small and dark, the opposite of Spinel’s in every way. Pink eyes followed up the wrist to its source. 

A human. A recognizable one. Spinel had seen this one around the house, always before Dusty ate pizza. Spinel liked pizza well enough, but Dusty always got it loaded with fish and a paradoxically sweet, yellow fruit. Spinel quickly lost interest in the harbinger of smelly pizzas appearance after recognizing it. She looked back down at the bag as the human jostled it. She snatched it back quick and started to hurry off. 

“Uh, you’re welcome?” She heard the human call to her from behind. Annoying. Useless. Unwanted. 

_Still talking about the human, right?_

“Shut up...” Spinel hissed to herself, thankfully out of earshot of the human. 

“You okay?” said the same voice, now somehow suddenly to her left. Humans were faster than she realized. She looked over, alarmed. 

_Wait... But they... Humans don’t have types, right?_

Beside her was the pizza deliverer human, but now wearing different clothing, and with its hair in a different pattern. 

“Uhhhh,” Spinel replied. 

“That’s not the best ‘Thank you’, I’ve ever got, but I guess it’ll do,” said the Behind Pizzaer, now making its way to the side of the Left Pizzaer, and ruining Spinel’s entire Pizzaer Identification and Separation System (PISS for short). The now Left-of-the-Left Pizzaer leaned on the Pizzaer to the right of the Left Pizzaer; or, if taken from the perspectives of the two Pizzaers, the Right Pizzaer leaned on the right side of the Pizzaer to the Right Pizzaer’s left. 

“Do you want some pizza or something?” said the Right’s left-sided Pizzaer. 

Spinel almost had an aneurism. 

“NAMES! BOTH OF YOU! NOW!” she screamed.

The Pizzaer to the left side of the Pizzaer to the right looked puzzled, and mildly alarmed, while the right-sided Pizzaer from their perspectives — or, if taken again from Spinel’s, the Pizzaer to the left of the Pizzaer to the right, the once Behind Pizzaer, and deliverer of smelly Pizza (except on every other week, or the third of the month, when it was usually the Pizzaer to the right of the Pizzaer to the left) — just snickered. The snickering Pizzaer (to the right) turned to its left and said to the Left-or-right Pizzaer, “It’s a gem thing — they always freak out when they see the two of us together. Must cross their wires or something.” 

“NAMES!” Spinel again screamed. 

The Not-Snickering Pizzaer looked like it was about to speak, but the Snickering Pizzaer cut it off. 

“I’m Kiki, the cool one. She’s my twin sister, Jenny, the responsible one.” 

Spinel nodded, satisfied. Jenny, the Responsible One, gave Kiki, the Cool One, an elbow to the side (Spinel’s right side, Kiki’s left) and looked like she was about to say something, but ultimately ended up shaking her head, giggling to herself as well. 

Jenny, the Responsible One, then turned back to Spinel, a look of seemingly sincere concern on her face. “You okay, though? You looked like you were having a moment.” 

Spinel turned her head a bit, confused. “I’m having moments always — that’s how time works,” she replied. 

Kiki, the Cool One, shook her head. “Come on, _Jenny_, you remember how those gems are, ya gotta be literal.” She regarded Spinel. “She’s saying you looked like you were about to freak the fuck out.” 

Spinel retreated inward a bit at that. She felt self-conscious. She didn’t realize her emotions were that visible. She wondered if Dusty had ever noticed. The thought was mortifying. 

“Is it that obvious?” She squeaked out. 

“When you’re shaking and muttering to yourself? Yes, it’s that obvious,” Kiki, the Cool One, responded. She turned to her twin. “What do you think, sis? Think we should help?”

Jenny, the Responsible One, nodded, and gestured toward the door of FishStew Pizza. “C’mon, let’s get you figured out.” 

* * *

As far as the olfactory was concerned, no establishment had been better named than FishStew Pizza. Under any other circumstance, Spinel would have marched right out of that sea-smelling, putrid establishment. But, at that moment, the odor reminded her of Pizza Night with Dusty, and since that was half the week, it reminded her of Dusty. 

The interior was a kind of cheaply tacky that struck Spinel’s off-world sensibilities as unremarkably peculiar. The tables, for instance, were draped in a fabric that on first glance appeared soft and cozy, but on closer inspection was merely camouflage for a sterilized plastic. It reminded Spinel of the wrappers that most of what Dusty eats. . . What Dusty used to eat came in. Which reminded her of the stuffed grocery bags she had been pressured to set down on the floor as per Jenny, the Responsible One’s insistence. 

The floor itself was spotless. 

There were also the two humans. They sat on either side of the furtherest corner of the table closest to the door. Jenny, the Responsible One, gestured for Spinel to sit. Spinel, who didn’t want to offend either sister by choosing to sit closer to one or the other, was forced to pull her chair to face the corner of the table, so that if she leaned too far forward, she’d be poked. 

Jenny, the Responsible One, began, “So, what seems to be the problem, um...?” She trailed off. 

Spinel stared wordlessly. 

“She wants your name,” Kiki, the Cool One, whispered. 

“Spinel,” Spinel said, having forgotten humans wouldn’t merely recognize a gem as rare as herself. 

“Okay, Spinel,” Jenny, the Responsible One, continued, “do you mind telling us what’s bothering you?” 

The gem thought for a moment. She wasn’t entirely convinced that talking about her problems with two random humans would be such a smart idea. But, on the other hand, she was growing in the fear that she was going to snap soon and do something rash. Something she couldn’t take back. Something stupid. 

Like let Dusty go. 

It seemed like from all the movies and comics and shows that she’d watched, that people (which she apparently was) _needed_ to talk about their feelings. Her preferred option would be her best friend, of course. But she suspected her best friend was not currently as sympathetic to Spinel’s turmoil than she needed a confidante to be. Maybe the humans’ utter unimportance was for the best. Maybe that was precisely why she could talk to them. Spinel decided she would. 

Then, she remembered what Dusty said about “jail and prison”, and decided she’d need to keep things vague. 

“The most important person in my life, the _only_ person in my life, is mad at me. I don’t even think she considers me her friend anymore.” 

_‘Don’t even think’? Jee, that’s generous._

Spinel stomped on her own foot. 

Kiki, the Cool One, was the first to respond. “Whose fault is it?”

Jenny, the Responsible One, shook her head. “Jenny, you can’t just—“ Kiki, the Cool One, bumped her with an elbow — “I mean, _Kiki_, you can’t just assume one person is at fault.” 

“Definitely my fault,” Spinel cut in.

_So, you can admit you’re wrong, but just not do anything to fix it. Classic Spinel. _

Spinel stomped on her foot again. Kiki responded by checking under her seat. 

“Am I sitting on a chew toy or something?” she pondered aloud. 

Jenny cut back in while her sister was distracted. “You’re saying you did something to upset your friend? Something bad?”

Spinel squirmed in her chair. “It wasn’t necessarily, objectively, without question, bad, but it was just...”

_Braining the person who took you in. _

“. . . disagreeable to her. To my friend.” 

“You just said you were at fault, though,” said Kiki, cutting back in. 

“What I did wasn’t bad per say. . .”

_So that’s the narrative you’re sticking to, eh? _

“. . . but I still shouldn’t, arguably, have done it. But the thing she’s mad at me for — my best friend — is what came after.” Spinel hoped she was making sense. 

_Sweet Diamond Authority._

Kiki and Jenny both slowly nodded, off-rhythm. 

“That sort-of makes sense,” Jenny, the slower of the two nodders, said. 

“Yeah, I think I get it,” replied Kiki, the faster of the two nodders. “Is it like when your friend gets mad at you for taking the last fry and it becomes a whole thing, but by the end of it the thing that they’re mad at you for is dragging them for their taste in music during the argument about said fry?”

Jenny gave her a look. “Whaaa..?”

“Yes, it’s exactly like that,” Spinel lied, hoping they’d get to the eye-opening advice part of this trope already. 

_If the dragging was on a leash. _

“Well, that’s not all. . .” Spinel whispered. 

_Say it. See how they react. _

“Hm?” Both sisters said in unison. 

“She. . .” Spinel racked her brain to find a non-incriminating way to say this. “. . . wants to leave. To not be friends anymore.”

_And why’s that?_

“But she can’t.”

_How specific. _

“Uhhh, why?” asked Kiki. 

“Because. . . Because. . .” Spinel panicked, and decided to just throw in human words. “Financial complications?”

_Wow. Bravo, Spinel. _

“That. . .” Jenny began, nodding, “makes approximate sense. So, you’re, like, roommates?” 

“Yes.”

_The accusation was Earth’s life was organic, not necessarily intelligent._

Jenny continued, “It sounds like your relationship with your friend is stuck in a bad place. I think you should find a way to help give her some space. Maybe help her move out, if you can?” The human had an expectant look. It was a question she wanted an answer to. 

Spinel fidgeted. “It’s not. . . impossible.” 

Jenny nodded. “Good, then! Then you should probably—“

“But what if she leaves?!” Spinel blurted out, interrupting the human. 

“Uh,” Jenny cast a quick glance to her sister, who was on her phone. “Isn’t that the point?”

“I meant leaves _me!_ What if she doesn’t want to ever see me again?” Spinel leaned forward, her gem clinked uncomfortably against the table’s corner. 

Kiki looked up. Jenny grew more concerned. Both cringed at the noise. 

“Well, Spinel. . .” Jenny shifted in her seat, looking to her sister for support, but finding her attention back on her phone. “It’s best for your friend to have space to figure things out. But if she does decide to part ways with you, maybe it’s for the best.” 

Spinel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How could humans be so _stupid?_ What kinda fucked up planet was this? Friends weren’t supposed to. . . _REAL _FRIENDS weren’t supposed to LEAVE. _EVER._ Dusty was just confused. 

_She’s not the only one. _

She would come around. 

_You have to let her go. _

Spinel shot up. She was shaking. She could feel her fists begin to swell. Maybe splintering this ugly fucking table would better communicate to these_ idiots _what. . .

Before Spinel could make another great decision in her ongoing streak, a new, harsher voice suspended her. It was refreshingly not a mirror of the clones before her, but was much angrier. 

“KIKI! WHY ARE YOU NOT IN THE KITCHEN BOXING THESE PIZZAS?”

Jenny, the Responsible One, shot up as well, somehow faster than Spinel. “Sorry! Coming, Dad!”

The voice returned immediately, almost cutting Jenny off. “JENNY! WHY ARE YOU NOT TAKING THESE BOXED PIZZAS TO OUR STARVING CUSTOMERS?!” 

Kiki, the Cool One, didn’t even rise. Or glance up from her phone, for that matter. She replied to the yelling’s call to Jenny, however. “I’ll be on it soon, Daddy!” 

Spinel just stared, confused. Hands having shrunk back to their normal bloated proportions. Jenny, the Responsible One, seemed to remember her the moment before she disappeared behind the counter. She turned back to the bewildered gem and winked. “Sorry for the confusion. It’s just a lame game Jenny, my _sister_, loves to play. I’m actually Kiki.”

She could hear _Jenny_ snickering from behind her phone. 

Spinel took a moment. She stood in contemplative silence for a time in the smelly pizzeria. Unbeknownst to both humans, the pink gem spent the time thinking fondly of the Injector Genocide plan that never came to be. 

She sighed, grabbed her bags and left. She hurried on the way back to Little Homeworld, trying to suppress any contemplation of what the two infuriating sisters said. Spinel hoped, desperately and hopelessly, that going to the Garden, spending time with Dusty would make her feel better. 

_You’re gonna feel like shit._

Spinel nodded to no one and stepped onto the warp pad. 

* * *

Before her, the scene remained much the same. The Garden was still standing, the stars were still in the sky, the plants were all still dead. None of that dumb stuff mattered though. The singular most important piece was out of place. 

Dusty sat atop the pillar she’d been tied to hours before. A seat which was suddenly much lower, on account that it had been blown in half, with the upper fragment a visible scattering of rubble and pebbles cast behind the human’s perch. Dusty kicked her legs as she whistled a patternless tune, twirling the tattered remains of what used to be a dog leash in her hand. 

Spinel dropped the bags. 

“Sup, dickwad.” Dusty said. She looked down at the groceries Spinel had dropped and perked up. “Oh dope, those sour gummy worms?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest fear with writing this story is that since more than half of this narrative presents Spinel through a callous (justifiably, without a doubt) gaze, it'll reflect that this is how I feel as the author. So I wanted to show things again from Spinel's POV. She's more self-aware than it seems, and is merely doing what makes sense to herself. 
> 
> ANYYYWAAAY be sure to comment! It means a lot! As you can probably tell from the ending, sort-of big shit is on its way.


	18. Soft and Warm

Spinel inched forward, eyes locked on Dusty, who had her own eyes locked on the bag of sour gummy worms that had fallen to the ground. Spinel, in every sense — posture, motion, facial expression — conveyed a clear sense of alarm. Dusty, in every sense portrayed the opposite. She remained on her seat, continuing to kick her legs outward and whistle to herself. She eyed Spinel anxiously scrape towards her, and wondered how skittish the pink gem was in that moment. 

Without warning, Dusty hopped down from her perch. Using more force than she expected, she pushed off the edge with both hands, propelling herself to land mere inches away from her very shocked captor: the nervous captor who staggered back with a yelp, spinning her arms out in circles like a cartoon trying not to fall on its ass. After regaining her poise, Spinel appeared to subtly expand in size, arms outstretched by her sides, knees wide. Dusty imagined the gem in basket ball shorts and a Jersey. 

“I see you don’t want me to step on the warp pad,” Dusty said, hoping somehow that pointing out Spinel’s intent would defuse the situation by injecting some much needed self-consciousness. Spinel only nodded. She was apparently very aware of her intent and felt no self-consciousness towards it whatsoever. 

Great. Dusty hoped her next plan might work instead. 

“Why are you even guarding the warp pad from me, instead of asking why I didn’t leave already? I chose to stay.” 

It took a good moment of silence, but eventually Spinel’s limbs seemed to inch back to normal. She didn’t seem any more or less tense, but Dusty couldn’t tell if that was due to her not buying what Dusty was saying, or if it was due to her thinking very carefully about what Dusty just said. 

Neither of which were at all ideal for Dusty, who was lying through her teeth. 

Spinel returned to her normal size. Or, maybe a few inches taller. They were eye level with each other. She took a step forward, and Dusty had to try very hard not to take a step back. When Spinel got mere inches away, Dusty involuntarily flinched.

“You’re still here,” Spinel said. 

“Yep,” Dusty replied. 

“You broke the pillar?” 

Dusty paused, thinking carefully before answering. “Yeah.”

_“You?”_ Spinel repeated. 

“Uh, yes?”

“How?” An inevitable question. One that Dusty had prepared for. 

“I kicked it,” she answered. 

There was a pause. 

“You. . . kicked it? And it just. . .” Spinel rubbed her temples. “You kicked a stone pillar and _demolished_ it?”

Dusty nodded. “Yeah, kicky.” 

Spinel glared. 

Dusty sighed, and turned to show something to Spinel, who at first responded to the sudden movement by resuming her tackle-ready position. Dusty snickered, to which Spinel lightly blushed. 

“There.” A pink finger pointed to a crack in the smooth stone pathway, a slab that had been shattered from the middle. Dusty just then remembered that the slab was also less impressively smeared with her blood. It was pretty dark to someone without night vision, maybe Spinel wouldn’t notice. 

“Is that blood?” Spinel said, noticing. 

“The thing we should focus on is how strong I am,” Dusty corrected. 

“You also broke another pillar with your head. I. . . I found the blood on that one too.” Spinel seemed to grow nauseous at the mere mention of Dusty’s blood. 

“Is it weird that I forgot about that?” Dusty asked. 

“You keep breaking my stuff.” 

“_But_, I shared this with you _and_ didn’t try to leave, so the moral here is that you can trust me.”

Spinel’s eyes narrowed. “The warp pad doesn’t work for organic life, does it?”

Dusty took a short step back. "I _have _heard of humans using them."

“Alone?” Spinel asked. There was another pause.

“The warp pad might not work for organic life,” Dusty admitted. 

Spinel sighed, rubbing her temples again. 

“_But,_” Dusty hastily added, “that’s the second thing I’ve confided in you, _and_ you don’t have to worry about me leaving at all. So, you’re pretty much winning, I’d say.” 

“Look, can I just. . . can I have a hug?” 

Dusty was very confused. That wasn’t the response she was expecting. She was expecting Spinel to freak out, that’s why she was scrambling to smooth things over; and now, instead, the gem was asking for a hug. Dusty thought about it for a moment, then took a few subtle steps toward the warp pad, talking so that Spinel would follow her. 

“You want to hug me? I thought you’d be mad.” Step. Another step. Dusty looked up at the stars, trying to appear contemplative. She almost smiled when she heard the telltale squeaks following her. 

“I was. . . _Alarmed_ at first, but now I just want to feel better.” Dusty briefly looked back to see Spinel shaking, and started to circle her, appearing to focus on what the gem was feeling. “Please. . . It’s been a while...” 

Spinel was too distracted to realize Dusty had positioned her standing right in the way of the warp pad. Dusty was half-listening, trying to figure out the angle she’d need to jump to get up to it. As she did this, the gem in front of her was losing a battle of restraint and edging forwards. 

“D-Dusty?”

“Hm? Sure, I guess you can,” Dusty said. She didn’t even really look at Spinel; rather, she looked past her to count steps. 

That didn’t seem to matter to Spinel though, who felt lighter than air, and closed the distance between the two instantly. She began by practically head-butting Dusty in her excitement. She slid her arms under Dusty’s, one hand climbing upwards to rest between shoulder blades, and the other moving down to hold onto the waist. Both upper and lower back covered to secure as much of a hold as she could. Still, however, she restrained herself. Dusty had always been annoyed at being completely entangled with Spinel, so she kept her arms their normal length. It still didn’t feel like enough to her touch-starved self, but Spinel buried her face into Dusty’s neck and tried to manage. 

On the other side, Dusty had prepared herself to fully ignore Spinel. She was letting her captor, her killer _touch her_. Not just a little, but full-on _clinging_. So, when she noticed the gem move in closer, with alarming speed, she tried her hardest to focus on adjusting her jump based on the added weight of one stretchy dumbass. She tried to focus on the place she’d want the warp pad to take her when she used Spinel as a key. The only two she knew of was the one in the Universe house and the one in Little Homeworld. Steven’s house would be alright, but on the off chance that no one was home, Spinel could overpower Dusty and bring her back without raising any suspicion. Little Homeworld was better. The gem was about to collide with her — not like she’d even feel it. 

Spinel connected with Dusty face first, then grabbed her from behind, restraining them together. 

Dusty was forced to recall the sensation of being pelted in the diaphragm during Dodgeball by Timmy Douglass, who bet his friends he could hit a girl bullseye in one of her nipples; who she later shoved into a window and got suspension for cause his right eye fucking sucked and never worked again. Spinel struck her with enough force that if Dusty could still breathe, she’d definitely have been winded. Somehow her lower ribs felt sore.

She felt not only this, but also warmth. She’d forgotten what it felt like. How did she even describe it? How does one describe _warmth? _It seemed as fundamental to being alive as breathing, and Dusty had been deprived of both. Without thinking, or reservation, she’d moved both hands to Spinel’s back. She could feel. There was mass under her fingers and she could tell by more than just her hands failing to move through it. Fabric lightly shifted under her touch. Dusty moved her right hand up to Spinel’s head, to feel hair between her fingers. 

It’s when Spinel thought that Dusty was petting her head, returning her affection, that she started to cry. 

Dusty was fixated on how she could tell Spinel’s upper back was quivering, heaving up and down, without even looking at it. She was about to poke a finger through a large pink pigtail, when she felt something run down her neck. It was warm, but also itched. It took her a moment to realize what the sensation was. 

Wet. 

It wasn’t just warm. It was warmer than warm. It _burned_.

She remembered the wetness on the back of her neck. She remembered the red in the water. A tear drop hit her shoulder. Dusty screamed and shoved Spinel away. She didn’t give herself a chance to see the look of hurt and confusion on the gem’s face. Huddled over on the ground, the human continued to scream, beginning to smash her palms against her head. Spinel, who’d been knocked to the ground, tried to steady herself upright while she watched the most important person in the universe to her, crouched over, desperately rubbing at her neck with a shirt collar. Rubbing until the skin chaffed and bled. Spinel moved towards her, low and steady, like someone approaching a timid animal. 

Dusty remembered the waves. She remembered the sinking, from a fickle cover’s surface to its endless underneath. The density that grabs and swallows all noises whole. The veil that drinks sunlight. Dusty screamed again, this time impossibly loud. Air hummed with her trembling throat. Somehow the panic fled her with the noise, rode out on it. She was almost as stricken by the absence of the hysteria than its crushing presence, like suffering emotional whiplash. 

A new panic broke in when Dusty saw the portal. It shimmered, a wound she’d inflicted upon space itself, standing seven feet tall directly behind Spinel. 

Spinel, who froze at the sight of Dusty’s eyes supposedly on her. She met the terrified human’s stare, returning it with a look of sincere concern. Dusty was suffering. She didn’t understand what had suddenly happened, but she needed to fix it, make her best friend feel better. Maybe afterwards they could hug again... 

She felt a pain in her gem at the look Dusty had in her eyes, both of which shook with panicked intensity. Spinel gave a small but reassuring smile, partly to make her friend feel better, and partly because this was the first time she’d gotten to really look into Dusty’s eyes for weeks. Even before, on Earth, Dusty had been difficult about it. Spinel always had to stare when her friend was zoning out or distracted, and when she realized what Spinel was doing, Dusty would hastily look away and make some crass comment. 

Outwardly, in nearly every way, Dusty had been affected by Pink Diamond’s power. Skin from tanned to pink. Hair from raven to peach. But not her eyes, which stayed the same. They were deep brown and still so beautiful. Sometimes, Dusty’s pupils seemed to get lost in the dark of the irises and Spinel could see her own reflection in them. Those were the only times she didn’t mind seeing herself, because it was proof Dusty was looking at her. But her favorite moments were those times Dusty’s eyes caught light in them and shone. Spinel edged closer and noticed something. Despite the dimness of the Garden, in that very moment, Dusty’s eyes seemed to glimmer. What was. . .

Spinel began to turn her head and Dusty screamed again, this time her name. Freezing her motion. 

“SPINEL! Please, _please_ I need your help!”

Spinel turned her head back forward, the glimmer forgotten. “You need me..?” she whispered. 

Dusty nodded, shaking through every inch of her body. “I. . . I freaked out. Suddenly, I just remembered the beach, the water. . . Sinking.” Her voice fell with that last word. She shook her head, as if to physically prevent the thoughts from reforming in her brain. “But I liked holding you. I could_ feel_ you. I was sure I’d never feel anything again, but I felt you.” 

Spinel nodded, dumbstruck. Her mouth was open slightly and she just stared at Dusty with disbelief. 

“Please...?” Dusty asked. 

It was a good lie. In retrospect, it was hard for Dusty to imagine coming up with a better one in that moment. It had all the factors every great lie has: half truth, half distortion, and exactly what the target wants to hear. And that target stumbled forward, almost tripping over herself in hurry. 

Dusty barely made it to her feet before she was tackled back to the ground. This time apparently restraint wasn’t as big of a concern, as Dusty felt the same hands pass over her torso again and again and again. Spinel rubbed her face into the chest she clung to — needing to be considerate to Dusty’s pain, needing to be supportive, needing to hide her grin. She suppressed relieved giggling by pinching herself. 

All the stress, worry, anxiety, and misery of the past few weeks dissolved, and in the comfort and relief of that moment, Spinel felt something she’d only felt once before. Like a weight was placed over her entire body. She imagined her eyelashes clawing to keep her eyelids shut. It was confusing. 

Dusty didn’t feel such a profound sense of relief. Any relief was momentary, and was overshadowed by the bleak implications of everything said, done, or proven in the last hour. She had super powers. That was kinda dope. She had only a faint idea how to use them. Had to reveal to Spinel that she was stronger than possible for a human. That wasn’t great. She’d learned that the warp pad wouldn’t work for her, and now that she thought about it, she’d probably need more than grabbing Spinel and standing on the fucking thing at the same time if she wanted to get home. Mainly, she’d most likely need Spinel’s consent to activate it. So, what? She’d need to play nice until the terrifying gem trusted her? How far would that have to go? Would she have to. . . Would she have to reciprocate _all_ of Spinel’s feelings? She could hear her giggling softly. She could feel her shaking with joy. 

She learned she could feel Spinel. That was annoying. Give her the one thing she needed most and attach it to the one person she wished she would never see again. 

All her anxiety bred with all her misery, and produced a sudden wave of exhaustion in Dusty, which mingled suggestively with the tangle of sensations (from the tangle of arms) holding her body hostage. They were admittedly very warm, and soft... Maybe Spinel smelled good — whatever, don’t be gay about it. 

Dusty hoped she’d wake up in her house. Spinel wondered if she’d dream again. 

They both yawned at the same time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was definitely less actiony than some of you were probably expecting. That's okay -- this chapter is the calm. Next one is the storm. 
> 
> (And in case you noticed that in this chapter Dusty can feel Spinel, but in an earlier chapter I demonstrated Dusty's numbness and healing abilities by having Spinel unintentionally crush Dusty's forearm: the explanation is for the same reason Dusty couldn't see extraordinarily well at first -- her eyes merely being overly sensitive to light -- but later developed superhuman sight. Her new body has now more or less acclimated to itself.) 
> 
> Please comment. Social distancing is killing me.


	19. In the Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS IN THIS NOTE (not the actual chapter, which is safe to read) FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T SEEN EPISODE 17 OF SU:F, HOMEWORLD BOUND
> 
> XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
> 
> Wasn't it so great to see Spinel again, happy and healthy? 
> 
> Anyway, now that we've got that out of the way, time to ruin it.
> 
> XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sleep usually broke for Dusty with a sudden, nonconsensual baring of her eyes by a passive-aggressive brain; followed by an assault by less-passively aggressive light on her naked pupils. This time, however, the order was reversed. Dusty woke to stinging in her eyes and the color pink, which was apparently what her eyelids now looked like when bright light shone through them. From this, even Dusty’s sleep-addled mind could deduce that there was a bright light shining into her _fucking eyes_. And so she opened them. 

Having forgotten what Dr. Maheswaran had warned her (forgetting what doctors warned her was almost a hobby) Dusty, upon opening her eyes, went blind. She suppressed a scream, remembering who was cuddled up on her chest, and settled for hissing through her teeth. She could almost hear the sound of sizzling, like she’d sampled two battery acid eye drops. The pain was layered: intense burning in the front of her eyes, and an ache at the back where her skull held them. Dusty held them closed so hard that it became another source of pain altogether. Eventually, through her eyelids, she realized that the light was no longer flashing down on her. She gingerly looked out again. 

The world was fuzzy. Looking up, even the once-starry sky seemed only black. When dots of light reappeared, Dusty wasn’t sure if the stars she thought she saw were actually real, or just shifting pinprick holes branded into her retina. Blinking helped. Slowly the blindness and accompanying pain subsided. Dusty waited until she could clearly see the white dots in the sky. She turned her head as much as she could, which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot. The last thing she wanted to do was wake the. . . Wait, Spinel could _sleep?_

_Wait, no. This is the second time. Both incidentally with her clinging to me._

She leaned her head up as much as possible, getting a good look at the warp pad stairs and the reassuring lack of a glowing portal. She also got a good look at Spinel, her lips smooshed up into a pout. Dusty really wanted to poke them with her finger — she bet they’d be really soft. It wasn’t a _gay thing_, but like when you see a dog with its face sort of droopy and you want to poke the corners of their mouth. But every time you try, the dumb mutt growls at you so you can’t. That was an odd tangent. Anyway, she looked. . . Content. She wasn’t smiling or anything — there was just this look on her face that told you, _‘If you try to get up to pee, I’ll hate you’._ But you know she wouldn’t because Liz could never. . . 

_I’m just gonna unpack that later_, Dusty thought to herself. 

She let her head fall back, still exhausted. The cold stone connected with her scar, and for the second time in five minutes Dusty’s vision went fuzzy. She wasn’t even frustrated. The dizziness from the hit made forming any sort of coherent thought a challenge. So, when a large object above strafed into blurry, bleary view, Dusty could be forgiven for not thinking much of it. Or anything. It’s around when the floaty asteroid started shining more blinding light (thankfully not at her this time) that Dusty started to think again. 

She watched it. The act of focusing seemed to clear the fogginess faster. Her sight started to heighten. Like the focus of her vision was the center of gravity to the blob in the sky, pulling leaked detail into it. Color crawled back to shape and shape grew back its outline. The disparity between the black of space and the object became crisper. 

It was. . . Pink. Dusty wanted to close her eyes and ignore it already. She didn’t, but she really wanted to._ I’m so fed up with fucking pink. _

It was very flat. At first Dusty thought it looked like a frisbee, but it was a little too stacked. Like. . . Two frisbies, stuck together. Aside from that the only feature on the Double Frisbee were two. . . No, _three_ bent rectangles which orbited the Frisbee’s seam. She decided that mentally she was gonna call them “belt buckles.” 

Basically, it was a flying saucer. 

_Oh_

_OH FUCK_

Dusty wanted to spring to her feet, jump up and down, scream, and maybe throw a rock to get the spaceship’s attention. She got about as far as bending her neck before the homicidal bundle on her chest yawned, wiggled her nose, and rubbed her cheek on Dusty’s chest. The sleeping gem’s hostage, on the other hand, was slightly less comfortable, watching helplessly as her floating escape ticket hovered to a different section of the Garden and began to shine its light there. Dusty wanted to bite off her own tongue. 

She had to think. Come up with _something_, or else her best bet was to wait until Spinel got fed up with her or was guilted enough into letting her leave. Even then, would she be _free?_ She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the gangly space invader would leave her alone. That stunt she pulled with the hugging (and now apparently cuddling) probably just set her back. Dusty had been aiming for a “More trouble than I’m worth” kind of scenario, but thanks to her weird freakout and scramble to hide evidence that she could create _fucking portals_ (How would Spinel solve that problem? Duct tape?) all she likely did was make her captor think that deep down Dusty really needed her. Cherished her, even. In spite of everything, hoping on some level that things could have just continued the way they had been on Earth. 

Which was a load of horse shit. 

She _could_ wait. Judging by the blinding rudeness of her awakening, it seemed the spaceship had to be aware of their presence here. But what happened when whoever was piloting that giant thing came over to investigate? Would they_ both_ be rescued? That would be an awkward trip. What would she do if put on the spot? Lie about what Spinel did? There’s a working warp pad here, so saying they needed a lift would seem ridiculous. They couldn’t just pretend they were stranded. 

_Okay, that plan’s out. Plan B is. . ._

Who’d win in a fight? It was a decently sized ship, maybe twice the size of the one Spinel had piloted. Was it safe to assume there’d be more than one gem aboard? Would it make a difference? 

Dusty could only think of Spinel punching that game at the FunLand Arcade. A fist stretching past the horizon, growing to the size of a car, and hitting like a missile. 

No, there was really only one option. Dusty slowly, carefully began to shift her body. She managed to get both arms up, but the real issue was going to be her torso, which at this point looked more like a cotton candy cocoon than a container of blood and organs that no longer worked. She counted the number of laps Spinel’s arms had taken around her body. She sighed. 

_Well, here’s hoping she’s a heavy sleeper._

Dusty began by locating Spinel’s hands. One was near her neck. _Yikes._ The other was. . . suspiciously close to her butt. _Heinie indeed._ She tried poking Spinel’s face, twice under the eye. Not even a twitch. 

Untangling herself was essentially several minutes of the most anxiety-inducing game of reverse Twister ever. Was it Twister? Dusty didn’t remember. It didn’t matter, because evidently Spinel was taking her nap pretty hard. She started wondering if the gem was a heavy sleeper in general. Then stopped herself. 

As she got up, Dusty noticed, lying forgotten by the warp pad stairs along with a heap of other groceries, the bag of sour gummy worms. She stared at it for a minute, then looked toward the spaceship, floating in a far-off corner of the Garden. 

Then looked back at the bag. 

_I really am Chekhov’s dumb bitch, aren’t I? _

Dusty tiptoed over to the snack, glancing at Spinel with every other step. When she did finally reach the bag and picked it up, the plastic crinkled slightly. Then she heard a yawn. She turned around. Spinel looked at her, bleary-eyed and half awake. 

_For fuck’s sake!_

“Dusty..? Wha are ya doin?” Spinel’s voice was sluggish. It seemed like she could fall back asleep with any excuse. So, Dusty gave her one. 

“Just going to the other side of the garden to, uh. . . Take a piss! Yeah, to do that. I’ll be back in a few minutes. So, you know, stay there.” Dusty tried smiling while she talked, but quit halfway when she realized it was unrealistic. 

Spinel took a moment to process what was being said, may have fallen unconscious again for a second, and then shocked herself back awake by letting her head fall. “Mmmhmm,” she said. “Hur bake.” Her head collapsed into a blanket of pink limbs. 

Bag of sour gummy worms in hand, Dusty jogged to where she’d seen the spaceship hovering last, though she could no longer spot it in the sky above the Garden. Thankfully, the space shithole was too small for her to feel anxious, since within seconds the landed space craft came into view. The body of the vehicle was being balanced on the “belt buckles” which had been lowered and bent to support the weight. Just under the seam was a large opening that had spewed out a ramp. Dusty almost cried when she saw the large blue gem standing beside it, seemingly taking samples of the dirt. She wanted to yell, to cry for help. But, knowing Spinel was within earshot, she suppressed the urge. She settled for anxious skipping. 

Maybe it was the panicked hyperventilation, or the skip-jogging, or the two bushes she tripped over, or the flailing arms which caught the gem’s attention. She was blue with grayish stripes, a stocky build topping off at seven-foot-something, not including the three horns poking out of the thick bangs which covered her eyes. It actually took Dusty a few seconds after stopping to realize that she was being stared at. She waved awkwardly at the gem. 

“Hey!” Dusty whispered. 

The gem screwed a cap on the vial of dirt in her hand before slowly returning the wave. She asked, loudly, “Why are you whispering?”

“Shhhh!” Dusty waved her hands out, trying to communicate how important shutting the fuck up was to this blue goliath. She continued whispering, “I don’t want to wake her!” 

There was a moment of silence as the visitor tried to think things through. Finally, she slammed her fist down on her palm, scaring Dusty. There was the sound of shattering, but the gem seemed to ignore it. “You’re the human 7HL saw by the warp pad!” she yelled. Dusty started shushing and waving her hands again, but the excited gem continued. “That was _sooo weird!_ I’ve never seen a human outside of Earth. I have some other Quartz friends who guarded a flock in Pink’s Zoo, but besides that, I was sure you dudes, like, stayed home, you know?” 

The “Quartz” finally noticed Dusty’s panicked gestures and stopped yelling. She blushed, then whispered, “Oh, sorry, dude. Don’t wanna wake up your cuddle buddy. Where is your little gem ‘friend’ anyway, huh?” 

Dusty shook her head, hissing back, “She’s _not_ my—“

The Quartz cut her off, not quite yelling, but clearly having forgotten the whole whispering thing. “I just wanna let you dudes know, I am _totally_ down for organic-gem freakage. When I was first uncorrupted, and I learned about that shit, I was like, ‘Duuude, that’s _sick!’_ But, like, back then I meant the bad kind of ‘sick’, you know?” 

“I-I don’t—“ 

“BUT after learning that the new Pink Diamond was a half-and-half, and taking some mandatory ‘Pro-Organic Sensitivity’ classes, I’m nothing but stoked for you dudes!” 

“Please shut the fu—“

“THANKS to Mini-Pink, I stopped being a giant monster that ate rocks, and I was able to pursue my dual-major in Ethnoarcheology and Isotope Geochemistry, so you orgies — that’s what I call organics — are tubular with me!” The Quartz grinned a wide, crooked-toothed grin. 

Dusty waited a few moments to see if she’d be interrupted again. The Quartz looked down at her hands and swore, realizing she’d shattered her sample of dirt. As the gem delicately pulled another vial from the utility belt Dusty was just now noticing, she decided she could finally talk again. 

“That gem isn’t my fucking ‘cuddle buddy’ — she kidnapped me. I’ve been stuck here for days. I need you to stop collecting fucking _dirt,_ and bring me back to Earth!” Dusty tried to keep her voice at a whisper, but the urgency of her situation was seeping in and her volume began to rise. 

The Quartz, who had just bent over to take another sample from the ground, looked up at Dusty as she nearly yelled that last sentence. She slowly put the empty vial back into her belt and stood up to her full height, which towered over the shaking human. Her face was expressionless. There was a long silence held between the two of them. 

The Quartz spoke up, her voice now level. Gone was the casual vibe she’d expressed earlier. 

“It’s not dirt. I’m checking the variance in acidity to alkalinity of the soil in different sections of this installment, trying to determine the purpose that the construction of such a technologically-costly outpost could have served.” The Quartz paused, waiting for a reply. Dusty was taken aback — the gem’s entire vocabulary had jumped at least a mile upwards in the span of seconds. 

_Maybe if I just tell her what this place is, we can go,_ Dusty thought to herself. This gem was very. . . Quirky. She figured it’d be best to just play along. She’d had plenty of experience with that by now. 

“It’s a garden,” Dusty said, waving both hands in an unenthusiastic flourish. 

The Quartz nodded, seeming less, um, mad? Is that what she’d been when she decided to vomit up the thesaurus she’d eaten for lunch? The gem resumed speaking gibberish. 

“That’s what the very controlled distribution of pH levels would indicate, as well as the clear examples of late Era One botanical architecture. It also explains the outwardly frivolous expenditure of energy required to build a condensed atmosphere field, but that’s more entering the field of my colleague.” 

Dusty tried _really_ hard to be patient with the colossal nerd-jock fusion in front of her, she really did. But with every fucking word about “abiotic carbon” and “photosynthetic pathways”, her fear of being grabbed from behind by a touch-starved Murder Jester grew. 

“Excuse me,” Dusty said, interrupting the Quartz’s dense stream of consciousness. She held her tone at a low volume, but with a desperate intensity. “I’m sorry for disrespecting your field of research, but I need to make something clear. Can I do that now?”

The Quartz frowned at the interruption of her lecture on the difference between stable versus unstable isotopes, but she nodded nonetheless.

Dusty sighed in relief, then continued. “There is a gem here who kidnapped me. She is asleep right now. That could end at any second. If she sees me trying to leave, she will stop me. She might even hurt you. Can we go right now, so none of that happens?” 

The Quartz nodded more slowly this time, slightly confused at what was just said and trying to contemplate it. She raised a hand, possibly to wave Dusty onto the ramp. Before she could, however, another voice shattered any semblance of stealth. 

“HEY BLURTZ, YOU DONE LOOKING AT YOUR STUPID DIRT?!” 

Out of the two of them, it was actually the Quartz who cringed at the sheer volume of the call, having just learned that her crew was in potential danger. Dusty just looked at her and blinked. She blinked several times before speaking. 

“Your name is ‘Blurtz’?”

Blurtz looked surprised to have been asked such a question in that particular moment, but nodded and replied, “Yeah? It’s what I am: blue quartz.” She gestured to her skin, as if Dusty had somehow missed her color until now. “Blurtz? Get it?” 

“I. . . That’s. . . Blurtz? T-That’s not even spelled. . . Forget it, let’s go.” Dusty shoved past “Blurtz” and sped up the ramp. 

* * *

Spinel woke up with no idea why. She just knew that she still felt whatever feeling had made her pass out in the first place, and, more importantly, she was alone. Where had Dusty gone again? She remembered her friend saying something to her. Maybe getting up? Was that what humans called “dreams”? Was dreaming going to be a reoccurring thing? Because so far all hers had been weird. She rubbed a knuckle into her forehead, interrogating her brain until it remembered. 

_Oh, right. Dusty had to pee._

Yawning, satisfied with her answer, Spinel rolled back over. She was discovering that the best part of sleep was knowing you can return to it. It was such a foreign, delightful feeling. Spinel wished she’d known how to sleep before waiting thousands of years — would have passed the time better. The only thing that could have been better in that moment would be Dusty sharing it with her. She wondered again how long it could take the human to finish. Regardless, the pink gem peacefully felt herself begin to drift off. 

_Wonder if she’s been gone a while. It _has _been weeks since she last peed. _

Spinel’s eyelids shot open. Her arms whipped to her sides and she sprung up in an instant. Why hadn’t she realized Dusty was lying to her? It was so obvious, _right there_ on the nose! Her mind had been like pudding. Sleep was dangerous and stupid, and Spinel decided right then and there that she’d never do that dumb crap again. 

More importantly, why had Dusty lied? There was nothing in the Garden she could do, really. It’s not like she could. . . Leave. 

_Please just say “escape”. It’ll be easier when you start being honest with yourself. _

Spinel huffed. “How do you know she wants to escape? We were just cuddling.” Saying it out loud made her feel warm and gooey on the inside. She smiled. 

_Do you seriously think she’s suddenly forgiven you? She’s playing you, dumbass. Dusty’s waiting til the second you lower your guard so she can get the hell away from you. _

“That’s not true!” Spinel yelled, stomping her foot. It let out a squeak. “She said she can feel me, even. Dusty was scared and vulnerable, and we— I helped her out.” 

_She’s lying to you. She can’t “feel” you. Just like that wrinkly human said, Dusty can’t feel anything anymore. All because of you. _

“No! I believe her! You’re wrong!” Spinel shook her head, but nevertheless started to shiver. She began to rock on her feet, pinch her arms and tug at her pigtails. She could see her gem, her very form, start to dim. The voice continued. 

_Do you know why she lied just now? To get away from you. She’s probably huddled up in some corner of this shithole, crying to herself. _

Spinel gazed off in the direction of the Garden she thought she remembered Dusty walking; though her sleep-addled mind was clearly unreliable. That must be it, though. Dusty needed space. Spinel could understand that — not _relate _to it, but she could understand why Dusty might need it. In fact, she could understand it so well, she figured she might as well join her best friend, and started marching off. 

* * *

“So, you’re the tech scientist?” Dusty asked the other gem standing next to her, awkwardly trying to pass the time as Blurtz conveyed to the pilot just how urgently they needed to leave. Or, at least, that’s what Dusty hoped was happening on the other side of the ship. The lights were too bright, so she had to keep her eyes covered, squinting through partly-closed fingers the whole time as she waited for her pupils to slowly shrink. 

The other. . . Quartz, she guessed, grunted in response. The grunt sounded vaguely hostile, so Dusty interpreted it as a no. She couldn’t see what this gem looked like through her squinting eyes, but the best she could tell was that she was about half Dusty’s size and red. That’s it, that’s actually all she could tell. It didn’t help that the middle of the red blob’s head (?) seemed to reflect the ceiling’s light right back at Dusty. 

They were probably running out of time. There’s no way Spinel wouldn’t wake up and stop them. Dusty could just now hear the engine (or whatever spaceship equivalent there was) hum back on, the belt buckles outside begin to spin. Every moment she spent thinking about it made her more scared. What would Spinel do if she caught her trying to escape? All Dusty’s progress (if she could even call it that) lowering the gem’s guard would be undone. There’s no way Dusty would get another chance like this. But. . . She remembered what had happened the _other_ time she’d tried to leave — Spinel had been willing to hurt her, and teleport them both to some isolated pet cemetery, or whatever the fuck, in space! 

Then, another thought occurred to her. It was born ugly in her mind, like some kind of maggot nibbling away at the gray matter deep in her brain. She hated it, as soon as it presented itself to her, like she should consider it anything other than worthless. It began meekly, hesitantly.

_I should go back to Spinel. _

It started small, but gorged itself on every morsel of anxiety, doubt, and fear that Dusty left out to air. It kept getting bigger. 

_It’s too late to pretend this didn’t happen. That I didn’t see the ship. But I can actually use that, if I leave now. _

Dusty wished she could slap her head with her hands right now. She even considered staring at the lights just to distract herself with pain. But she felt like she’d need her eyesight soon. The maggot grew with self-satisfaction as it grew in size. 

_Abandon my best chance of escape. She’ll trust me. Then, eventually, I can convince her to take me back to Earth._

One hand covering her eyes, one hand slapping her head. It didn’t work. 

_After a few days, weeks, months even, if I have to, I’ll disappear. I don’t need to eat, piss, shit. I don’t even need a roof over my head. _

_Then again. . ._

Dusty bit down on her tongue. Hard. Her mouth tasted like metal. 

_It wasn’t so bad before. I could always just—_

“SHUT UP!” Dusty screamed. 

The bickering on the other side of the room stopped. The glare from that gem’s head was shining on her, cutting through her fingers — feeble pink barricades that wouldn’t stop shaking. Dusty didn’t need to see to know she was being stared at. The maggot had grown thicker and longer, become a foot-long tapeworm that sewed itself to Dusty’s mind and pretended it was one of her brain’s wrinkles. It would grow bigger, every second she wasn’t free. 

She lost focus of everything around her, clamping her eyes closed tighter and thinking of terrible things. Worse things. The floor beneath her began to rumble. Dusty pushed her hands through the mud and dug up memories she’d buried. She slid to the floor, eyes hiding behind eyelids behind hands behind knees. 

The gem beside her walked away. Dusty saw herself, smaller, being yanked by the wrist.

The walls began to hum. Dusty saw herself hiding behind her mother.

The ship was no longer on the ground. Dusty tiptoes near furniture since settled floors creak less.

The belt buckles started speeding up. Dusty is sung to for the last time and she doesn’t know it.

The gems around her move to their seats; invite her but receive no answer. Dusty is forced to drink whiskey until she pukes the night her mother dies.

The ship rises high above the Garden. Dusty can’t walk right during recess and the teacher finds her bruises.

They might actually escape this place. Dusty is comforted by strangers while her father leaves in handcuffs.

Dusty waits for the thoughts to come, the smug voice to tell her what she can’t do, and what she must endure. She’s on hold a while, but no one answers. 

Dusty killed the maggot in her brain by drowning it in poison, because she will never be at the mercy of anyone she fears again. 

* * *

Spinel watched the pink drop ship hover above the Garden. She looked away, quickly scanning around herself, towards any direction Dusty could be. _Anywhere_ _else_ she might be right now. But there was no sign of anyone. Unless Dusty was playing a very hardcore game of hide-and-seek and buried herself under the ground. Spinel waited for the voice in her head to call her stupid, in denial, or pathetic. It didn’t say anything. Silence. 

She was alone. 

Spinel glared at the drop ship and gritted her teeth. “But I won’t be for long.”

She stretched her head up high, yet again searching the Garden. Not for Dusty this time, though. She’d need an anchor. None of the pillars would cut it. Her gaze froze on the platform at the Garden’s center: the massive pyramid, peaked with the warp pad she detested so much. Ironically, it was her best bet. 

“That’ll work.” 

* * *

The room around Dusty suddenly heaved and shook. The humming of the floor became labored and sporadic, reminding her more of a game console with a broken disc drive than an advanced alien star explorer. The once somewhat hushed bickering grew to yelling, confused and layered over itself in panic. She could just make out what the one unfamiliar voice was saying, since when it spoke up the other yelling diminished somewhat. Must have been the pilot. 

“. . . and stuck! Something’s blocking the landing legs’ orbit. 7HL, do you have visual?. . . What do you mean, ‘she’s _holding_ it’?!. . . Look, no, I believe you, but. . .”

The rest was lost under the rising chatter of the anxious crew and the strained groans of the ship. Dusty needed to know what was going on. She needed to _see._ She stood up and shouted, “Turn the lights off!” But she barely managed to dent the bubble of overlapping arguing and orders. She stomped her foot, hard, and tried again, yelling with the intensity of someone whose body exceeded its natural limits, and the disregard of one whose throat would never sore again. 

“TURN THE FUCKING LIGHTS OFF!” 

This time she knew she’d managed to get their attention, since every other noise, save for the crying ship, quieted. The pilot’s voice called out again, this time clearer and in Dusty’s direction. 

“Why the hell would we do that?”

“So I can fucking help.” Dusty said it with enough confidence that even she believed it. 

It was silent for a moment. Then, Dusty’s eyes stopped hurting. She lowered her hand: the lights had been turned off. 

“Anything else you want, My Diamond?” The pilot, a one-eyed green twig with limbs, asked sarcastically. 

Dusty nodded. “Yeah, lower the ramp.” 

* * *

Spinel couldn’t exactly pull a space ship out of the sky — she was just one little gem, after all. But with a little elbow grease and intuition, she could certainly keep one from taking off. And with all the rewarding groans and shuddering she was noticing from the stupid floating hunk of garbage, it seemed that was all she’d need after all. 

She didn’t know for certain how far she could stretch — she’d never tried to find an answer to that question, since it had never been necessary for her as a toy. Judging from the forty-seven times she knotted, looped, and criss-crossed her arms around the giant space ship, she was guessing she could stretch pretty dang far. 

Following the web of what appeared like bubblegum clogging the ship’s flight mechanisms, Spinel had coiled both her arms together like a massive Twizzler, so that the strain of holding down a interstellar vehicle wouldn’t poof her instantly. She’d also twisted her torso similarly, so she couldn’t stretch anymore than she wanted to. 

This led into her legs, which, much like the pattern of constriction on the ship, she’d effectively netted to the warp pad’s pyramid. 

Spinel smiled to herself — any moment the ship’s systems would fail, or at least weaken enough to be pried down from the stars. She couldn’t tell for certain, but it seemed to be waning, lowering inch by inch. 

Then the door opened, and a ramp slid out. 

* * *

What Dusty saw alarmed her. She knew Spinel was powerful. She was capable of demolishing machinery, shooting her fists like bullets, and, of course, caving a skull in. But what Dusty witnessed at that moment was the short, bubbly, kind-of annoying brat she had let crash in her house, restraining a spaceship, like the giant chain links that held massive ships to shore. She didn’t know where the raw power of Spinel’s gem abilities ended and her proficiency at using them began. She couldn’t decide which was scarier. Though, the gem seemed distracted at the moment, staring at Dusty. Her face twitched between relief and fury and back again. There was the consolation of knowing she hadn’t been abandoned yet, and the infuriation of knowing abandonment had been attempted. 

Dusty decided in that moment that going back was definitely off the table. 

* * *

Spinel wanted to hug Dusty, to hold her. She wanted to warm her and comfort her, let her know that it was alright, let her know she forgave her and that everything would be fine. 

Spinel wanted to snap Dusty in half. To break her frail human bones again and again, satisfied in the knowledge that they’d heal back together, so she could break them once more. 

She didn’t understand how she could want both at the same time, but nevertheless she pulled _harder._ She looked to the ship’s landing legs; she didn’t know much about Homeworld machinery, but she had a hunch they helped the ship fly. Maybe focusing her strength on them would be optimal. Because of this train of thought, Spinel didn’t notice exactly when Dusty had begun aiming her palms right at the stretched-out gem’s center. She tilted her head quizzically. Spinel wasn’t certain what this gesture meant. She smiled — was it a gesture of surrender? Then she gritted her teeth — was it a symbol of defiance? Dusty glared at her intensely, and Spinel suddenly remembered the pillar, shattered in half. The one Dusty said she _kicked._ Her friend, who always _lies_ to her. 

_She wouldn’t,_ was the next thought that occurred to Spinel. 

* * *

Dusty felt slightly ridiculous, standing dramatically on the extended ramp of an alien ship, hands pressed together like she was about to emit a massive ki blast. She wasn’t even one hundred percent certain this would work at all, and wouldn’t that just be mortifying? 

_“Yeah, lower the ramp.”_

_“Why?” _

_“I have to make an ass of myself then get rekidnapped.” _

She tried to shake it off. She knew the gist of what she was doing, just had to wait for the right moment. Wasn’t positive when that moment would come, but sometime in the next ten seconds would be good. 

_I’m gonna fucking die._

* * *

_Would she?_ Spinel bit her lip. The drop ship’s noises lessened as she lost her focus. She held on firmly out of instinct, but her intention to destroy pieces of the machine faded from her mind as new, terrible thoughts plagued her. Maybe it was waiting deep within her, hiding, watching for the perfect moment, when she was at her most vulnerable. Regardless, the voice returned. It wasn’t a different personality, really. It wasn’t a splintered fragment of Spinel’s damaged psyche. It was just all the things she already knew about herself, thrown back in her face. It spoke, as always, with her voice:

_She would._

“NOW!” Dusty yelled. The sound itself seemed to wound Spinel. 

Maybe it was out of self-preservation then, when the voice screamed at Spinel to protect herself. Like a blur, truly in seconds, she pulled her arms back. She spiraled them together in front of herself — a shield for her gem. 

Then closed her eyes. 

* * *

The yell had been preemptive. It was, in fact, four seconds after that Dusty’s heart beat. 

She adjusted her aim. 

* * *

Within a fraction of an instant, Spinel heard the loudest noise in the universe. Then, for what seemed like forever after that, everything was quiet, save for a dull ringing. But, if she could hear ringing, her gem must have remained in one piece. She didn’t even feel anything from her arms, no impact or pain. She smiled. 

_See? Dusty missed on purpose. _

Spinel opened her eyes and found herself in a cloud of gray within a hailstorm of rubble. Bits of stone and shinier minerals rained down around her, varying in size — pebbles shot out like shrapnel and bounced like marbles, while boulders launched out as if from catapults. All at an angle. All from. . . 

Spinel twisted her head back around. 

Dusty had not missed. 

The warp pad. . . No, the entire top of the Garden’s centerpiece, the pyramid, had been annihilated. Now, like a volcano that blew its top, it spewed its ash and refuse. Stone, obliterated to the point of powdering, blocked much of the Garden’s sky. 

“No...” Spinel whispered. She turned her head back. One last time, she just needed to see her one last. . .

The ramp was gone. The door was closed. The ship rose higher and higher above the Garden until it was a dot, and then blipped out of existence. 

Spinel’s pigtails lowered. Her legs lost their purchase on what remained of the platform, and she tumbled down the dust-peppered stairs. Her motionless body hit the ground, hard, no effort to brace for impact made. She recovered, slowly, at the bottom on the marble walkway, in a familiar spot. 

Spinel stood still in the Garden, and looked up to where the clouds didn’t loom, into the endless sky. 

But the stars seemed dimmer than before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you space cowboy...


	20. ...That's In the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer-than-usual wait, but as you'll soon realize, this is basically two chapters strung together.
> 
> So enjoy that, I guess.

Dusty woke to a hangover that covered her body like a blanket, which she supposed gave her something at least, since her actual blanket seemed to be missing. So, in addition to the tingling in her stomach, stinging eyes, and slight headache, she awoke to the invasive coastal breeze which. . . 

Which she couldn’t feel at all. 

She turned from the damp pillow she’d buried her face in to watch the curtains by her bed dance to a muted wind. It was odd, seeing the fabric billow and waver without the accompanying cool, like an explosion without sound, or a barreling train in a silent film. She watched it for a while, unable to inspire herself to do much of anything else. Every so often, the wind would push through the overlap in the curtains and cede a ray of sunlight, which _conveniently_ fell upon her face every time. It almost became a game. Dusty would try to anticipate exactly when the sunlight was about to spill through, and close her eyes just in time. Every time she closed her eyes but didn’t feel the dull sting cut her eyelids, she’d berate herself for being a pussy. 

Dusty spent the better part of an hour playing chicken with the sun, tempting it to blind her, because turning her head after waking up seemed to have depleted her energy for the day. Most mornings began. . .

Wait.

Most after_noons_ began this way: Dusty waking up, usually at least somewhat on her bed, with no energy and no motivation to do anything but watch the sun slowly set from behind a pair of shut curtains. Usually, the window was closed. She didn’t remember opening it. She didn’t remember much about last night, save that it took more alcohol than usual to start forgetting. 

Normally the taunting chill of the sea would be enough to harass Dusty out of her warm bed and up to her feet. But, since now all the wind in the world amounted to was a bit of motion, and her bed was no longer warm, the motivation was gone. There was no needy stomach to rouse her from laziness either. No pesky bladder or uncomfortable bowels. She could truly wait in that bed forever. She could outlast every plank of wood in her shitty house, and maybe the very beach itself. She could lay waiting in that spot until the spot no longer existed and she just lay in a bed of sand. 

Dusty always figured she’d never move again if she didn’t need to. At the very least, the validation was nice. She wondered what time it was, not for any particular reason. Her useless arm had already directed her idiot hand to grab her phone from beside her pillow before her worthless brain could remind herself that it was dead. She checked her phone. It was dead. She threw it across the room, partly knowing her ironic phone case would take the hit, and partly not caring if it didn’t. 

Dusty heard the smack of rubber and plastic on wood, and sighed. She’d burned reserves of energy she didn’t have. Did this mean tomorrow she just wouldn’t wake up? A tempting possibility. She needed her charger, and rolled out of bed; reaching its end, she didn’t pause to readjust her body, to introduce her feet to the ground first. Rolling straight off, landing on her face was how she’d left bed for the past three days. 

Feeling had progressed for Dusty, then settled. It didn’t seem like it was going to progress any further. She could feel her nose, squished against her own face — nostrils blocked and the tip pressed into her lip — but she couldn’t feel the floor which flattened it. She couldn’t feel the impact either. Just that her face was in a different shape than before. The floor could be rough, smooth, bumpy, prickly, hot, or cold. She couldn’t tell these things. Her sensations seemed locked in her own body, trapped in a cage of pink skin; it was as if she were a separate person, suffocating in a layer of someone else. If she touched herself, she only gained some awareness of shape and density. Passing fingers through her own hair gained her not the sensation of soft bristle brushes combing her hands, but just the sense that what her fingers traveled through was thicker than air or water. 

Not that she touched water anymore. 

On the floor, Dusty realized how utterly. . . the same, she felt. Why did she exert the strain necessary to stumble into bed, anyway? She could just as well pass out on any floor in her house. Shit, the beach could do. Fuck, the ocea— No. Not going there. The room seemed to grow a little darker. Dusty peeled herself from the textureless floor, finally, and looked at the window. Still daytime, she hadn’t blacked out. As Dusty realized a thick gray cloud had masked the sun’s light, she thought about how wonderful it was to have a roof. Soon enough, however, it drifted away, and she was back to shunning the window’s flickering rays. At least that meant no rain. 

Fuck, she used to like the rain. 

Dusty waited a moment, leaning on her arm, palm to the floor. Sighing, she pushed down with her fingers, effortlessly swinging her body upwards like a pendulum. Still had to work on the finish, though — Dusty had put a little too much strength in and needed several awkward, one-legged side hops to recover. She collided with the frame of her door, and tumbled out into the hall, tripping over something small and face-planting for the second time today. This time, at least, unintentionally. Dusty got back up to her feet again — no flourish this time — and checked behind her foot. 

Dead phone. 

Dusty took this as a sign that perhaps she should find her charger. 

* * *

Not on the coffee table by the couch, not in-between the cushions of the couch, not _on_ the couch — Dusty looked practically everywhere in her house she’d been the last few days, but still couldn’t find her charger. After lifting the couch up over her head and checking the frankly disgusting floor underneath, Dusty began to think about certain things. One was a question of her lifestyle choices, but drowning that out were more important questions. The first important question being “How long has my phone been dead for, again?” Answering this question only brought up other questions, like: “Jesus Fuck, has my phone been dead since I got back?”

It had. The last time Dusty’s phone had been used by anyone was when. . . 

Was to check the time. Before she was trapped in a bed for two weeks. She briefly wondered how in all the time she’d been back she never slowed down to find her charger. Then she remembered how much she’d been drinking to forget everything. Was this the longest she’d been sober since returning? Was she even sober now?

The scrap paper on the kitchen countertop flashed unfortunately into view as she scanned her living room. Dusty, never one to shy away from a little self-harm, sighed and approached the counter. The note was still there, undisturbed. She glanced at it. The same unintelligible nonsense scrawled on it as the other dozen times she’d checked. 

Gem writing. 

The plan had been simple: Give the coordinates to the Universe kid, tell him to send a ship there in about a week, and rush the fuck out of Delmarva. She stared at the clothe-stuffed duffel bag on the coffee table. When had she decided not to go through with it? She wasn’t even sure if it was a decision she’d made. Just, day by day, it was a thing she didn’t do. It was so easy not to... 

Dusty shook her head. No, no, she _would_ do it! Sometime. 

Sometime else.

_Maybe later,_ she thought. Yeah, it didn’t have to be right away. She had to get ready before that, obviously. And first for getting ready, she needed a new phone charger. 

* * *

Sheena didn’t like small towns, which, despite the name, “Beach City” certainly was. Everybody knew everybody there. It’s not that she minded standing out — 6’6” with pink hair made that impossible —rather the feeling of being an outsider wasn’t one she liked. In the city (the _real _city) nobody knew anybody they saw on the street, but nobody felt like they didn’t belong. At least, she never got that feeling. The way of the city was that everyone had a place somewhere, you just had to find it. Sheena got looks pulling into town on her motorcycle, she got looks stopping by the curb to check her phone for the nearest gas station, and she got looks walking into the accompanying 8/11 to pay after filling up, to split the money between card and cash. 

The gas station seemed to be the smallest variant of a gas station one could find. At least to Sheena. Two short aisles, side by side, and a one-walled cooler for energy drinks and pop. There wasn’t a pastry rack, or a deli (not that Sheena would risk her life on gas station grinders). In lieu of a coffee machine, they had a mostly broken slushee dispenser — “Out of Order” sign absent only from the Wild Cherry. Half the ceiling lights were fluorescent white, but the rest were a flickering, dull yellow. 

In spite of all of this, Sheena walked away from the cashier by the door. There was a sort of lame novelty to this place that she wanted to experience at least a few minutes longer. Wandering, she waited for anything to catch her eye, or if nothing did, she hoped to enjoy the surrealness of it all — tiny, boring gas station in a tiny, boring town which claimed to be a city. She perused the edge of the second aisle, smiling at all the familiar brands of candy she used to beg for as a kid. Sheena was knocked out of her nostalgic admiration of a bar of chocolate when someone much shorter than her somehow bumped her off-balance while moving from the aisles to the cooler wall.

A flash of pink. 

Sheena found herself muttering apologies, even though she was certain she wasn’t at fault. No reply came from the pusher. She waited a few moments, then slowly looked over her shoulder, trying to be subtle. 

A woman, much shorter than Sheena, slouched by the cooler door, held open by her waist without any seeming concern for letting the cold air out. She appeared to be carefully scrutinizing the back of two cans of. . . Four Loko? Her actions didn’t catch Sheena’s attention nearly as much as the woman herself. She was pink. From her skin, which was almost the same shade as Sheena’s own hair, to the woman’s hair itself, which was much, much lighter. Curious, she wished she could see the woman’s eyes, which were unfortunately covered by a pair of ByeBye Kitty sunglasses with the price tag hanging off. She bet they were some shade of pink too. The woman must have been one of those aliens, Sheena guessed. 

The most human thing about her was definitely fashion. From what little Sheena had seen online and from those aliens who strayed beyond their community here, their fashion tended to be very sleek, often uniform-like in appearance. This lady rocked a worn-out Spongebob T-shirt, with a halfway zipped up grey hoodie that she’d let the arms and hood of hang loosely over her butt. Her leggings were just a pair of swim trunks. 

The mystery girl ignored Sheena altogether, too absorbed in what looked like. . . Comparing the alcohol content of different Four Loko flavors. 

Mystifyingly, Sheena found all of this extremely alluring. But how could she even know this lady, you know, swung that way? She looked her up and down again, and for the first time noticed the mystery girl’s shoes: a pair of yellow and blue dotted crocs. They looked hideous. 

Sheena nodded. _Okay, she’s definitely gay._

Since the last time she’d met an alien in a gas station worked out so well, she figured it best to initiate this time. 

“I love your hair,” she began, confidently. “What shade is that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it in—“

“Go fuck yourself,” the pink lady said, cutting her off. She spared Sheena a lingering look, seeming to grimace upon noticing the taller woman’s hair. A moment passed between the two of them, which the shorter woman allowed, possibly giving Sheena a chance to make a comeback; but her mind was blank. The stranger looked disappointed, like she was bummed she wouldn’t have the chance to get into a fight with someone at a gas station. Without another word, the pink lady turned around and walked away with an armful of Four Loko. Despite this, Sheena stared at the spot she’d just been standing, having not fully processed what just happened. Eventually, though, she shook herself out of it. 

_Well, can’t imagine how that could’ve gone worse,_ she thought. Without much else to do, she just got herself a small Cherry slushee — not really wanting one, but also wanting to stall so she wouldn’t run into the pink bitch again. The machine was blissfully loud enough to drown out any of her thoughts. After waiting to hear the door bell jingle, and then waiting another minute to confirm the mystery girl was really gone, Sheena made her way up to the cashier, ready to leave this shitty town. 

Unfortunately, ringing her up took forever, which was surprising considering literally all she was getting was a couple gallons of gas and a questionable slushie. Eventually, the cashier finished what felt like a novel written on that register. What he said after was surprising, though. 

“One sixty,” he said, giving her a hesitant look. 

Sheena was bewildered. Maybe the small town with an identity crisis wasn’t so bad after all. Had she read the sign wrong? She could have just covered that with a two dollar bill, which she then handed the man. He just stared at it, though. 

“Is something wrong?” Sheena asked. 

The man stuttered out his reply. “S-Sorry, miss, I meant one hundred and sixty.” He tugged at his collar momentarily, before adding, “Dollars.” 

Sheena froze for a few moments. This had to be a mistake. “For the gas, and a slushie?” 

“A-And the sunglasses, and the phone charger, and the Four Loko—“ 

“I didn’t buy any. . .” Sheena began, then trailed off. 

The reality of the situation had begun to dawn on both of them. The cashier gulped. “I-It’s my first w-week, and she — the pink miss — said you were here together, and that you’d cover it.” 

That fucking. . . “S-Still! For some stupid (possibly unregulated) energy drinks, sunglasses, a charger, gas, and a slushie, I still shouldn’t owe over a hundred fucking dollars!”

“Sh-She— She...” the cashier was now struggling to breathe, “She also bought a handful, like dozens and dozens, of l-lottery tickets, so, actually...” 

Sheena wanted to rip her hair out. 

The matter took about twenty minutes to resolve, with her finally being guilted into covering half the charges that the cashier would pay as to not lose his job. She left the stupid 8/11 fuming, promising herself never to return to that stupid shithole again. She was in for one last surprise, though. 

Scattered on the pavement from the doorway to her bike, like rose petals to a bed, were dozens and dozens of shredded lottery tickets. 

* * *

“Is this okay?”

Dusty checked her periphery first, every corner and edge of her vision. It was almost surreal — she never expected how much the sight of blurry black would mean to her. Then she turned to the mirror. She stared for a long time, silent and expressionless. 

“Hey, is this okay?” Liz repeated. 

Dusty nodded. If she just kept her focus upwards, she almost looked normal. It’d only been a couple weeks since she had last looked normal, but the sight was a surprise. “It’s black again,” she finally said. 

“Technically your hair used to be just a very dark shade of brown. Black hair, actual black, doesn’t—“

“Liz,” Dusty interrupted. She turned and looked at other woman, smirking. “Shut up, before I shove you in a locker.” 

Liz rolled her eyes, but returned the smile. “So, it’s okay then?” 

Dusty ran her fingers across her scalp, hoping to feel how the dye felt on her hair, forgetting she wouldn’t be able to tell. She settled for inspecting her hand after she’d finished. If there was any smudging, she couldn’t see it. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

Liz sighed. “For two cans of fourteen dollar hair spray, I was hoping you’d find it a little better than ‘alright’.” 

“Oh, it’s actually amazing. I’m cumming right now, you just can’t tell,” Dusty replied, in the same monotone only people who knew her well would recognize as sarcasm. Unfortunately, Liz knew her _too_ well. 

“Uh huh. Trust me, Dusty. You always made it _very_ apparent to me when you were doing that.” 

Dusty coughed. 

* * *

Liz picked through the clothes piled up on the couch, scavenging a place to sit, as Dusty watched her out the corner of her eye, sitting on the (mostly) clean chair. She felt self-conscious at the display of her living room, and knew her visitor was becoming more concerned by the minute. Dusty usually tidied up a little when she knew Liz was coming over, but this time she’d invited her over in a bit of a panic. A “Get Over Here in 30 or I’m Shaving My Head” kind of panic. 

“So, uh,” Liz began, “I know you said on the phone not to bother with the wash-in kind, but since that stuff on your head isn’t going to last, I brought some anyway. It’s in the passenger seat, so if you change your mind. . .” 

Dusty nodded, half-listening. Staring at the nearly full duffel bag of clothes, toiletries; a passport, a birth certificate. . . Stuff all packed in a rush on her coffee table. Most of her wardrobe was comprised of shorts, swimming trunks, and T-shirts. Dusty braved a glance at her bare arms, her bare legs, and shivered. “Do you want any?” she suddenly said. Getting a confused look, she clarified, “Clothes, I mean. I’ll trade you. I know you have way more long-sleeved shirts and pant than I do, cause. . .” Dusty trailed off. “Uh, yeah.” 

Liz watched her for a while, tilting her head slightly. “Uhhh, that’s sudden. I thought you preferred letting your ‘skin breathe’, like you always used to say.” 

“I’d be fine letting it suffocate for a while, I think,” Dusty said in a low tone. 

There was a long moment of silence. 

Liz cleared her throat. “So, I guess we should start with the mundane,” she said, giving Dusty a side-eye. “And go up from there.” 

“Whatever could you mean?” Dusty replied, dryly. 

“Let’s start with where you’ve been.”

Dusty sighed. “That is certainly mundane.” 

“I’m used to you not returning my texts—“

Dusty winced. _Ouch. _

“—but I stopped by Thursday, and nobody was home. Kinda freaked me out.” Liz looked to her expectantly. 

Dusty ran her hand through her hair again, stopping near the back, thumbing the groove in her skin. She could find it easily now — a singular chakra point for all the tension in her head. 

“I went on a little trip.”

Liz perked up. “Oh, like a vacation?” Then, she narrowed her eyes. “This wasn’t one of your benders, was it?” 

After casting a glare, Dusty just shook her head. Liz waited for her to say anything, but she stayed quiet. 

“When did you get back?” Liz asked. 

Dusty rubbed her neck, struggling to remember. Days still blurred together. Time had little meaning before when she was unemployed and reclusive, and virtually none now that her days weren’t even segmented by meals or as much sleep. “Saturday..?” she guessed. 

“Uh, okay, next question.” Liz pointed at Dusty with her finger, then swirled it around in a wide circle, gesturing at all of her. “You’re pink.”

“That’s not a question.” 

“Okay, right, sorry,” Liz said, holding out both hands. “I’ll try again. Why are you pink?” 

Dusty shook her head again. “It was. . . It was an accident. I don’t want to talk about it.” 

There was another awkward moment of silence before Liz leaned over, placing a hand on Dusty’s knee, who just stared at it, imagining what it could have felt like — warm fingers on pajama shorts. “Must have been some accident,” Liz said, offering a small smile. Dusty stayed quiet, so Liz kept talking. “Does it have something to do with all the curtains being drawn? How dark it is in here?”

Dusty stayed quiet, watching her bangs bob in sync to her rocking back and forth in her chair, so Liz kept talking. “Is it, like, a medical thing I don’t know about, or is it some alien stuff?” 

Dusty stayed quiet, listening to the sound of distant waves that might not have been real, so Liz kept talking. “Uh, did you go on this trip alone? Did you go with. . .” Words faded into noise, unintelligible and distant. She remembered what it was like sitting on the bottom of a crowded pool, the dense hush. 

Dusty stayed quiet. Liz kept talking. She didn’t hear anything that was being said. The little light in the room seemed to dim. The walls, ceiling, floor — everything seemed to moved further away from where Dusty was sitting. Then, even herself; she imagined her eyeballs sinking deep into her sockets. 

Some time passed. 

Eyes returned to Dusty’s head, and she looked left to the couch; Liz was missing. She tried to stand up, but was slightly hampered by something. She looked down to find her torso draped in a blanket. What was the purpose of blankets, again? She didn’t bother pulling it off, sliding out of the chair onto her feet this time. All of the loose clothes on her couch and table had been folded, stacked neatly and divided by type. She must have blacked out again. Though it felt different this time. Softer. Turned to see Liz tying up the knot on a trash bag. She noticed Dusty’s state and smiled, looking relieved. 

“You’re up!” Liz said, waddling from one end of the kitchen to the next, a bloated black bag swinging in her hands. “Well, I suppose not really ‘up’, since that would imply you were sleeping; but I mean. . . Moving again.”

Dusty nodded. She still felt a bit out of it. The room seemed darker, but maybe that was actually from the passage of time. It was hard to tell now. Liz had apparently given up on getting a verbal response, because by the time Dusty stopped staring at the ceiling — musing on the prison of time — and looked back, she was washing her hands in the sink. She always did do that after touching trash. 

Dusty thought it was weird how people missed the lamest things. She finally pulled the blanket off her shoulders, and set it on the top of the couch. She even sort of folded it, to contribute in the littlest way. She stayed at the edge of the kitchen, surveying how it had changed since she first sat down. There had been pizza-stained cardboard stacked four boxes high, in an embarrassing number of piles — gone now. Several (a dozen) cups, varying in shape and level of filth — gone. Numerous miscellaneous papers strewn about, on about every available (relatively) clean surface — gone as. . . 

Gone as well. 

Slowly at first, Dusty began to pace the borders of her kitchen, toeing the line between wood floor and vinyl, searching from a distance while Liz dried plates. As she quickened, her pacing edged closer and closer. While her body went back and forth, so did her eyes, looking for any possible detail she could have missed. Dusty reached the counter and started swinging open cabinets, pulling out drawers — Liz was staring now, maybe saying something. Dusty couldn’t hear it. There was a pounding in her head. Then, she remembered the trash bag. 

She set upon it like a fly to shit. Tugging first at the knot on top, before immediately giving up. She remembered vaguely that the writing on the box called these trash bags “extra durable”, but her fingers separated it open easier than wet paper. She dug through Big Donut takeout bags, burnt towels, the charred remains of a breakfast; past an empty syrup container, a half empty gallon of curdled milk, and flattened Fish Stew pizza boxes too dirty to be recycled. 

Recycled. 

She glanced over at the unopened blue bag right next to her. 

_Oh for the love of fucking shit fuckfuckf—_

Same procedure, less mess. She found it, finally. Now stained by her own hands with coffee grounds and pizza grease: the torn envelope she’d shoved into that pilot’s hands days ago. 

“Um, want to tell me what that is, and why you wasted an hour of my time cleaning your kitchen to get it?” Liz’s voice finally registered. 

Dusty stayed still, on her knees, staring down at the paper in her hands. The throbbing had subsided. “Coordinates,” she whispered, just barely loud enough for anyone to understand. 

“It looks like scribbles.”

“You threw it away,” Dusty said, now at regular volume, but toneless. 

Liz shifted her weight from either foot. “Listen, I literally thought it was just some scrap paper you used to check if pens had ink or something. Can you even read that? It’s not Kanji, or Katawhatever. It’s _definitely_ not English.”

“I’m not the one who needs to read it.”

Liz just stood there, awkwardly, hands still wet from drying dishes. Dusty stared down at the paper in her hand, the coordinates, wondering how she’d feel if they’d been lost forever. For what? Cause Liz decided to “freshen things up”? Dusty turned and glared at her. 

“Why are you still here?” she asked. 

Liz took a hesitant step back, off-guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“What are you even still doing here?” Dusty repeated, louder. “Folding my laundry? Spring cleaning? I don’t need your help.” 

“You called me on the phone _asking_ for my help.” 

“With fucking hair dye! And now you won’t leave, cause you got your foot in the door and saw how ‘broken’ I am, and now you want to ‘fix’ me again!” She rose to her feet, and although she was inches shorter than Liz, that wasn’t the impression the other woman was getting. 

“If you want me to leave so badly, I can!” Liz said, finally yelling back. She tried to push past Dusty, but found herself unable to make the pink woman even budge. Dusty didn’t notice. 

“I don’t_ need_ fixing. I _can’t_ break.” To Dusty the air seemed to grow denser, noise traveled through it meekly. Her eyes went to the drawer by the sink. “Let me show you.” Dusty marched across the kitchen, while Liz just watched her, worried and confused. But she knew the layout of this kitchen, and soon remembered what that drawer held. She moved to stop what was about to happen, but was too late. 

Dusty carved the steak knife from the base of her wrist to the edge of her elbow, crossing a dozen faded white lines along the way. She’d pressed the blade down about an inch, and certainly cut more than skin and veins. To her, it felt like scraping her arm with a fingernail. She nonchalantly tossed the knife into the sink while Liz screamed. 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! DUSTY, I. . . I’ll start my car, we just need to get you to a hospital!” She reached out for Dusty, who just took a step back. She held her uncut arm out, keeping Liz at bay, while her other arm stayed frozen in position. 

“Look closely,” Dusty whispered. 

Liz shook her head, “I— I don’t want to see. . .” but trailed off. She caught a glimpse of Dusty’s cleaved wrist. The raw gap between skin, the breathing vein, was closing. Beginning with the smallest corner disappearing, then continuing upwards. Up from Dusty’s wrist, past her scars. As if there was an invisible zipper pulling the outer fabric of her arm back together. In seconds, it was a mere line by Dusty’s elbow, and before Liz could even process it being any smaller, it was gone. The only evidence that Dusty had ever cut deep into her own body being the slowing drip of blood from her pinkie upon the checkered vinyl, and the shaking which Liz couldn’t stop. 

“See?” Dusty spat, the harshness of her tone worsened Liz’s shivering, somehow. “I can fix myself.” 

Liz put both hands on the countertop to her side, letting her legs turn to jelly, breathing in and out until she could stand alone again. “How. . . How the _fuck_. . ?”

Dusty stomped her foot, denting the floor beneath her. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it!” Her eardrums throbbed with the crashing of water on a nonexistent shore. 

_“What?”_ Liz asked, taken aback. “You— You do. . . _This shit,_ and tell me you don’t want to talk about it?!” 

“I did that so you’d _leave! _So you’d see I don’t need a fucking babysitter!” 

“God... Is that what you think I am to you?” Liz was only just beginning to regain feeling in her legs. The nauseous pit in her stomach remained. “Dusty, _clearly _ things are f-fucked with you right now, so just tell me what happened.” 

“Your regular ‘check-ups’, your stupid fucking daily texts, making me hang out with _your_ friends — I’m their fucking weed dealer, I know they don’t like me!” Dusty dug her fingers into her arms as she spoke. “Well, it’s fine! You can stop now. I’m giving you an out. Clear your conscience. I’m not your responsibility. I can tell you for a fucking_ fact_ that I won’t kill myself tomorrow, or next week, or the week after that, because when I tried yesterday, it didn’t fucking WORK!” 

Dusty shouted the last word, and the walls shook. Glass cracked. Liz was shaken again, and if she hadn’t been still holding the counter with her all strength, she’d have been knocked to her feet. Neither of them noticed yards away, where the air began to shine; tried to pry itself in half but failed, sputtering out into nothing. A portal trying and failing to emerge. 

Before the shaking even completely stopped, which to her had gone unnoticed, Dusty had stomped over to Liz, who just barely made herself stand up straight to meet her at eye level. When her eyes lingered higher, she noticed something. 

“Uh, D-Dusty, your hair. . .” 

Dusty pointed a finger at her face, cutting her off. “Shut up about the hair dye! You can leave, that’s _all _ I needed you for.” Then, she whispered, “I’m not like you.” 

Liz didn’t move. She didn’t even blink, just stared into Dusty’s eyes. Liz was quiet, so Dusty kept talking. 

“I don’t need to be with someone to keep me from offing myself. I don’t pretend to be so high and mighty, so mature, when I’m too pathetic to even be alone on Christmas. I’m fine on my own. I’m better, actually. I don’t have to lie to myself anymore, and try living up to some saintly, stuck-up asshole’s—“ But she didn’t finish. Suddenly, Dusty found herself looking at the cupboards to her left. She didn’t remember turning her head. The sound of the waves were gone, and she was stunned by their absence. It felt like something had happened which froze her, so she just kept staring at the swirls and wavy patterns stained in the wood until the color of the light illuminating them gradually shifted. She didn’t know how much time had passed. For the second time that day, she turned over to where Liz had been to find her not there anymore. But, this time, she wasn’t anywhere else in the house. The screen door was open, banging against its hinges in the wind. 

Liz had slapped her. 

Dusty hadn’t felt it. 

* * *

Sleep came easily. She’d wandered to bed, numb. She didn’t remember even falling asleep. But she remembered waking up. There was the slow flicking of the switches in her brain. Her eyes opening, and her mind remembering it’s own existence. Followed immediately by the regret of it. There was the wait for her nerves, which lagged, like inputs from a controller to a screen. But the feeling never came; the part of her mind that knew that flicked on shortly afterward. Her room was darker than it had been, maybe. She watched the walls in a different, deeper shade than before, so she supposed so. It had been windy earlier. Now she heard the rumbling of thunder and the rattling of rain fall on the shell of her house. 

Rain. 

She’d shut the windows, right? Despite the sluggish activation of her brain, she hastily scrambled across the mattress, to perch on its edge and witness the separation of herself from the wet. The curtains covered the glass, but flashes of lightning still cut through. Which was fine. It wasn’t the lightning she was afraid of. But in the flashes, she thought she saw something in the corner of her eye. Something unwelcome. Her heart couldn’t stop, but she froze anyway. 

It was dark again for a while, and the unwelcome thing was impossible to detect, so she waited. 

Another flash. A strand of a familiar color. She ran to the bathroom, and flicked on the dimmest light. Entire clumps of her hair was the same shade of pink as before, striped down from her scalp like highlights. Most was a darker shade, but pink nonetheless, as if the color was bleeding back unevenly. Like the pink thing that lived on the surface of her body was digesting her attempts to conceal it. Only one sliver in her bangs was still black. 

The color, the shade, looked just like. . .

She grabbed for her phone, in a panic, almost dropping it twice with her trembling hands. Liz. She needed her_ right now._ And it didn’t matter if the smug bitch rubbed it in or held it over her head, she could not live always seeing _pink!_ She. . . She’d ask for the wash-in kind. It would be alright, better than this. Maybe she could hit her scar on the wall before the faucet was turned on, and Liz could wash it in while she was blacked out. That could work. 

She’d apologize. Liz would forgive her. Because Liz knew. What’d she even say to her? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t get Liz to go away when she fucking _wanted_ her to so. . .

The check mark wasn’t appearing next to any of her messages. Why weren’t they delivering? Whatever, she’d call. Liz was probably sleeping anyway. It took fucking _forever _ for her phone to even connect in the stupid shitty ass storm, but it finally did! 

Straight to voice mail. She dropped her phone, and looked back up. 

The sliver of black was gone. 

Suddenly the rain was much louder — bullets rained down on her frail roof instead of droplets. The tension on the back of her head was much tighter. She screamed, and the air in front of her began to shimmer. The mirror cracked. The glowing air persisted for a moment, and then fizzled out, stranding her again to look at herself. She began to cry, clasping her head with both hands, pressing against her skull. 

She pulled and pulled at bubblegum-colored hair, looping fingers through messy strands for grip and tugging to rend it from her scalp. Eyes stung with salt as tears flooded her vision, blurring the image she hated so much which faced her, before spilling over down her cheeks. Her throat felt clogged with heaving sobs, chest shaking up and down at an uneven, panicked rhythm. 

The truth poured on her like a deluge, seeping into her mind, filling in each crack of doubt and unearthing every root of denial. She never felt so hollow, and now she knew why. 

She was alone. 

**End of Part One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't know how long I've waited to use that fucking prologue twist. 
> 
> And if you haven't noticed at this point, the branding/fake branding is inconsistent as fuck. It really just depends on my mood, I guess. My boyfriend recommended "SpongeRob" but then I'd have to go back and edit that continuity error out of chapter 1. 
> 
> Anyway, Dusty continues to make only good decisions. 
> 
> Please comment. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_OHV2Syrjg&list=LLwwLX4tOrGxDx2v47TzczWg&index=13&t=169s
> 
> (Also I'm SO fucking sorry for ever implying that you can't be friends with your weed dealer. Dusty is clearly delusional.)


	21. Low Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Sorry for the long delay! My living situation has been a bit hectic and it's made writing difficult.

**Prologue**

Agate held a firm hand to her nose, and a firmer one on the weapon at her waist: a double-tongue flame whip, which currently appeared as an impressively ornate hilt. She could have held it within her gem, of course; but it inspired so much finer fear to have it in view. Or, at least, it once did, when she held power over hundreds of gems, and not just a handful of the galaxies rowdiest rejects. Still, habits died hard. Agate viewed her clinging to the old ways as a symbol, hopefully of things to come. Maybe soon someone higher up than her would notice, maybe they would ask. She’d practiced the monologue in her head — just enough passion and poise to move even herself to tears. Agate smiled to herself as she thought of such a day, and almost forgot where she was going. Her fingers loosened on her nose and she was all at once reminded why she’d been throttling her nostrils so — the absolute _stench_ of the bacteria-festering pit she’d been forced to visit. She believed its patrons called it “a bar”. 

“Fire! Hey, Fire Agate!” The rough yelling tore the distracted gem from her fantasies. She cast a quick glance in the yelling’s direction, calculating if she could subtly make her way towards its source without. . .

“Yoooo! Agate! Fire Agate! Over here! The booth by the. . . Uh, fucking statue thing!” The yelling _persisted_. 

_Oh, for the love of._ . . Agate gave up and marched over toward the _moron’s_ table. She was currently the subject of several pairs of now-curious gems’ eyes. How she’d love to wrap that complete buffoon in her whip and squeeze and _squeeze..!_

“There she is!” The Quartz’s yelling had calmed itself to a mere intolerable yap as she regarded the fuming Agate beside her table. She smiled stupidly, and Agate noticed her missing a tooth. The Quartz suddenly looked very shocked and swiftly slapped herself in the face, which upset the Agate, since that’s exactly what she wanted to be doing, and seeing the fool do it to herself so much harder than an Agate was capable of ruined the prospect. 

“Where in the fuck are my manners?!” The Quartz almost shouted, again. 

_Probably hiding where the sun doesn’t shine,_ Fire thought to herself. 

“I didn’t even offer you a seat! Please, please! Sit your tight ass down, my liege.”

The Agate groaned. But nonetheless moved to the other side of the table. She was interrupted, however, just as she bent down. 

“Make sure your stick is positioned right, Aggie,” the Quartz warned. 

Fire sighed. “What nonsense are you blathering about now?” 

The rude gem winked. “I’m just concerned if you sit down so carelessly, that giant stick you’ve fitted so tightly up your ass is gonna come out your throat or something.” 

The Agate disregarded her, and sat down without so much as another glance at her vulgar companion. She pulled the screen from the gem on her wrist, and slid it across the table. The sooner she was done with this mission, the sooner she’d be reassigned far away from frequenting such clod-infested dumps and socializing with the infestations of clods. 

The Quartz waited a moment to see if she’d get the reaction she wanted. Disappointed, she grunted as she picked up the screen and surveyed its contents. It took several minutes. Fire smirked as she noticed the gem mouthing some of the longer words to herself. Finally, she placed the screen down. 

“Sounds like a shithole. Sure we’ll break even?” The Quartz asked, sliding the screen back. 

Fire nodded, quickly returning the device to her gem, hoping it wouldn’t bring any grime with it. She grimaced at the thought. “Got the info leaked from a so-far reliable Ruby contact.”

Quartz scoffed. “Rubies don’t know their foot from their tiny square asses.” 

“All she does is plug us the numbers. She’s smart enough to do that much.” Agate wasn’t going to debate on the intelligence of Rubies, who she’d always found leading the three-legged dumbass race amongst the lesser cuts. “The hit is a small enclosure, fixed on an asteroid fragment.”

The gruff gem rolled her eyes. “I know, which is what I’m worried about. Probably some aristocrat shit’s playpen. Why should we waste our time there? Don’t your gems want weapons? Heavier tech?” 

“Of course you wouldn’t understand,” Agate replied, shaking her head. “There’s a controlled atmosphere, reportedly. Yet the area itself is far too small to have been terraformed. That means atmospheric plates. They can be stripped for lithium, or used as is, should the need arise.” 

“Pfft, whatever,” the Quartz said, losing patience with talk of anything beyond fighting and payment. “So, the crew...”

“Yes, yes. Who do you have available?”

“4ZN is always up for anything. Got her cracks healed from last time. That’s it for Rubies.”

“Just the one? Rubies are practically worthless on their own, aren’t they?” 

The Quartz shrugged. “A gem’s a gem. Push comes to shove,” she wiggled her eyebrows, “I could always fuse with ‘em.” Fire failed to suppress a shudder. The other gem grinned. “Why’d ya even need muscle on this one, if this is just a scavenging job?”

Agate composed herself, shaking off all the disgusting images from her mind, which her annoying collegue took such great pleasure conjuring up. “For the same reason Homeworld refuses to touch this location. The original team that went there must have encountered _something_ that scared them.” 

“What were they even doing there?”

Fire waved her hand. “Some ridiculous legacy project. Cultural research and such-and-such. Waste of perfectly good gempower and resources, but that’s Era 3 in essence, isn’t it?” 

The Quartz nodded thoughtfully, or whatever she did that passed for it, before continuing. “Well, besides that Ruby, I met up with an Amethyst pair on Earth that are bored out of their minds from all the New Age hippie shit Pink’s pushing.” 

“Don’t sound too reliable,” the Agate warned. 

“For this? This ain’t exactly ‘top secret’ like your other shit. We could pass this off as scavenging, which, as I said, it basically is.” 

Fire frowned, but nodded. The ruffian had a point. She gestured to the Quartz to continue. 

The Quartz finally truly frowned. “Problem comes with Nephrite.”

“Same one as with the crater job?” Fire quietly hated that she’d become familiar with these lessers. 

Quartz nodded. “And the belt job before that. She’s started to figure out she’s part of the slim pickings we got for these kinds of gigs. Asking for triple.” 

The Agate gritted her teeth. “Miserable clod...”

“Not many available, trustworthy Nephrites out there can pilot untraceable Late Era 1 haulers. If she’s smart enough to do that, she’s smart enough to figure out how rare she is.” 

_“Fine,”_ Fire hissed, “but cut out the two clods from Earth. We’ll have to settle for just one other knuckle-dragger.” 

“Hey!”

“No offense,” Fire amended, meaning offense. 

“Eh, fair. There’s one I have in mind. A Topaz.”

The Agate raised a brow. “Why didn’t you mention her sooner?”

“Yeah, you’d think, right? But, get this, she’s a total softie. Keeps crying about her ‘other half’ all the time,” the Quartz said, chuckling. 

“Sure you can’t get your hands on a Bismuth? They’re more. . . versatile. Usually have the cut for fighting.” Although Fire Agate loathed the breaking of tradition, pragmatism at such times would be noticed and rewarded. The Bismuths would all return to their forges _after_ everything went back to the natural order. 

The crude Quartz, however, shook her head. “Good luck getting _any_ Bismuths to travel beyond a warp pad. The disappearances got them spooked.” 

_Ah, yes. Those._ Fire Agate nodded to herself, understandably. Apparently too understandably, because her companion picked up on it. 

“Why am I guessing your gems have something to do with it?” 

The Agate smirked, but shook her head. “I know scarcely more than you do, my simple friend. All I can say is that big things are in motion. Big things.” 

**Part Two Chapter Twenty-One: Low Tide**

_“It’s been a while. To be honest, I’m a little surprised you reached out. You’d expressed some. . . interesting opinions on therapy in our past sessions.”_

_“Don’t be so smug about it.” _

_“Sorry about that. Just glad to be given a second chance. So, what’s been going on in your life, Ms. Naka—“_

_“Just Dusty works.”_

_“Dusty then. Sorry, I think that’s actually in my notes.” _

_“To answer your question, about my life, I guess I should mention that it ended. Besides that I’m doing great, though.”_

Dusty smashed her ring finger at the second knuckle with a ball-pen hammer, lodging the base of her shattered bone into the pliant, car-sized drift wood she squatted beside. She quickly moved to her middle finger, crushing it similarly, then moved on again to her index. It sounded a bit too much like snapping KitKats. She cast a brief glance left: her pinky had finished healing. Dusty sighed. Lost again. 

Surprisingly, lifting her left hand back up failed, as it seemed her finger’s bone was still lodged in the wood like a slant nail. She waited impatiently for the few seconds it’d take to heal, cursing when the bone successfully popped free and sheathed itself back into her flesh. Sometimes the fixing hurt when the breaking didn’t. She wiped blood off in the sand, then checked her phone. Overcast, but still low chance of rain — new ideal weather. She never found sunglasses very fashionable, and was happy to keep them tucked into the collar of her shirt. She checked her messages: still nothing. It’d been a week since anyone said anything in the group chat. Dusty was sure Tierra and Alice had made their own separate chat with Liz, and were yapping it up behind her back. Saying anything in the group chat would just look pathetic, so she didn’t bother. No room for the drug-providing afterthought. 

Dusty instead went to the Notes app on her phone, scrolled for a bit, then typed, “Hammering fingers feels like bending them the wrong way. 2/10.” At least it had killed a few minutes. She’d found herself unimaginably bored, lately. The only thing that brought her any sort of release was pushing this new body to its limits, but so far regarding pain she rarely found any. She’d practiced things a bit, tested her symptoms out. 

Dusty was strong now. Very strong. She could lift a car over her head with only slight strain. She could crush rocks in her hands. She could run without fatigue. She could even Hulk-jump; though she never did, considering her body had the durability of a regular human, so every time she landed she shattered both legs. 

Dusty had nightvision. Or, more accurately, “fuck light” vision. Additionally, she could pick up little details she’d never noticed before, see further, differentiate shade and color more acutely. Her hearing had sharpened, though not to similarly superhuman levels; just someone with very good hearing. Her sense of smell was. . . Normal? She couldn’t really tell — the beach smelled like shit before and after. Her sense of taste was irrelevant. 

Feeling... Sometimes Dusty ripped teeth out of her head to count the seconds it took for bone to grow back. Molars were thirty-eight seconds. The faster growing flesh of her gums would hastily fill the gap, before the slow but steady pearly white pushed it back out, like a seed sprouting from the soft dirt. It was tingly. 

_“I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but I was wondering about the pink. . . everything.”_

_“Yeah, you can just keep not saying anything about it.” _

Lars wasn’t comfortable around Dusty. She knew that much, wasn’t an idiot. Every time she was around him, he’d get all fidgety and try to end his proximity to her as soon as possible. Nicely, of course. She thought of this as she nonetheless shoved her way into his lame bakery. Some customer was at the counter, talking and talking and talking about stupid shit no one cared about. She was middle-aged, short and rail thin. When she died, Dusty would be middle aged, but unchanged. She noticed the lady’s face, how gaunt it was. Smoker face. Nevermind, Dusty didn’t need immortality to be young when this bat kicked the bucket. 

Her voice was like an asthmatic parrot’s — shrill yet somehow breathy. _What is she even talking about? Oh, her grandson._ When he died, Dusty would be in her nineties, but still looking young. _Oh my god, she’s talking about her in-laws now. Fucking shit, bet Lars wishes he could die right about now._ To his credit, he was maintaining a smile, albeit a forced one. Dusty couldn’t do that, not even for pay. Maybe for a minute? It depended on her mood. Nowadays she’d just tell the Karen dipshit bothering her that she’ll outlive her entire bloodline, stand over the graves of her great, great-grandchildren and laugh, so does a shortchanged nickel really matter so much, in the grand scheme of things? 

Finally, after another two chapters of her unabridged autobiography, the lady took her fucking scone and pissed off. Lars didn’t seem to have noticed Dusty, his eyes focused on the register in front of him. Which was odd, because whenever Dusty found herself in a prison of a conversation, her eyes always tended to wander. Especially lately. Whatever, she’d say something. 

“Smashing fingers in with a hammer is a two,” she said. Boom, just like that — fidgeting and eyeing her nervously. The _second_ he noticed her he’s clearly uncomfortable. “In case you were wondering.” 

“Why would I wonder about that?” Lars replied, with his nasally-ass fucking voice. 

“Cause I know you’re too much of a pussy to try it yourself.” Dusty said, leaning forward on the counter. 

“Hi, Dusty.” He even managed a weak wave. Star treatment today. 

“Look, don’t you wanna know just the least bit about how your new body works? It’s not going anywhere for a while, so why not help me drum up instructions?” She’d made this appeal before, two weeks ago. Dusty had just tried jumping off a skyscraper the day before. Didn’t hurt, but maybe that was due to the immediate “death”. Charm City was nice, though. 

“We’re not exactly. . . Two of a kind, you know?” Lars said. 

Dusty rolled her eyes. “I can’t talk to the fucking cat.” 

However, Lars shook his head. “That’s not what I. . . Hm. . .” He stuttered and mumbled over himself. This was definitely another one of his stupid “nice” things. She almost missed the bitchier, but insensitive Lars from before. 

She sighed. “Out with it.”

Lars scratched his head, still avoiding eye contact. “The two of us. We’re at different. . . Severities?” 

Ah. It was true. It’d been suspected as early as the first week since waking up, but Dusty and Lars were not exactly in the same proverbial boat. Mainly, Lars was missing most of Dusty’s worse symptoms. He didn’t need to eat as much, but could still consume solid food. He didn’t suffer the same sensitivity to light. He had relatively normal strength for a human. 

Lars could still feel. 

But, he also missed out on Dusty’s abilities, though she suspected it was just due to a lack of motivation. She knew intense danger was a good one, from person experience. The running theory was that it had to do with the length of time each had stayed dead — Dusty’s time in Hell was significantly longer. 

His lips were moving. Oh. She zoned out. “Can you repeat that?” Dusty asked, earnestly. 

“Uh,” Lars paused, having lost his train of thought. He thought a moment. “Ah, uhhh, you tend to. . . bounce back, better than I do. So, why do you even need me?”

Dusty gave him a funny look. “Are you serious? You have a spaceship.”

“So do you, technically.”

“You have gems who can fly a spaceship.” She honestly forgot about the great red tear drop gathering barnacles on her front lawn. 

Lars sighed. “I don’t ‘have’ gems, they’re my friends.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dusty scoffed, waving a hand dismissively in the pastel geek’s face. “Point is, I wanna feel what it’s like in space.” 

Lars seemed to light up at that, less fidgeting, a genuine smile. “Oh! Well, I wish you’d told me sooner! Yeah, I can take you out for a space adventure sometime. Oh, it’s so amazing out there, in the stars.” Was he getting misty eyed? 

Dusty shook her head, and cut in before he could milky his way to the cosmos. _Yikes, that was a terrible one,_ Dusty thought, incorrectly. “Nah, it’s much simpler than that — save you gas too. I just want you to let me float around up there outside the ship.” 

Lars looked confused, but shook it off. “Oh, you mean, like floating in a sui—"

“Naked.” 

“N-Naked? Like, without a space suit?”

Dusty snickered. “More like just a birthday suit. I was watching this Tubetube video, and this astronaut said that if you get caught out in the void without protection, the side of you that’s facing the sun will burn up — wicked fucking scorched — while the side facing away will freeze. Sounds badass. Wanna be raw-dogged by a massive gas giant, since I missed the experience by never fucking any men and all.” 

Lars stopped smiling entirely now. The fidgeting came back. The dude was seriously bipolar. 

Dusty continued, “Plus, I hear there are planets that are super radioactive. I wanna watch tumors _grow,_ like those sped-up videos of flowers blooming or butterflies, or whatever shit.” 

“I-I don’t think that’s h-how it work—“

“Do you think, hypothetically, someone who was immortal could die if they were shot into the sun?”

“I’m. . . I just realized I need to reorganize the inventory in the back,” Lars suddenly said, moving away from the register urgently. 

Dusty called after him, “Did you pass by any black holes on your crazy resurrection field trip?” She thought she could hear a locking sound from the back. 

_“How are your friendships going?”_

_“Oh, fantastically.”_

After leaving the bakery, it only took a minute for the satisfaction of ruining Lars’s afternoon to fade, replaced by the familiar ache of knowing no one wanted to talk to Dusty. She walked to the edge of the beach, back to the bloodstained driftwood. She always did this — pushing people away had become a game to her. Just like her old therapist always said. 

_“I never said that.”_

Just like her old therapist always implied. She checked her phone. Both Tierra and Alice were online. They usually were, both chronically online losers. It was just Liz who usually wasn’t. . . Nevermind, didn’t matter anyway. Before she could second guess herself she sent it, like a hasty fist hitting drywall, a text to the group chat: “hey”. Dusty held her breath. It wasn’t an accomplishment. Within the minute, both Tierra and Alice went offline — the green dots by their names flicked off like lights. 

She kicked the driftwood into the ocean. Dusty never had the best balance, so at least she managed to force herself to focus on something besides her own thoughts as she waited on one foot in the sand for her toes, shin, and ankle to unbreak themselves. 

_“You can tell me whatever you’re thinking, Dusty. So, if there’s anything you’re self-conscious about, know this is a safe space. We have a few minutes left, if there’s anything else you’d like to cover, we have time.” _

_“Lemme think.” _

Dusty couldn’t feel the cold, the sway of the tide. She couldn’t feel pressure or density, really. Her eyes could pierce darkness, so that didn’t feel real to her either. But, as she watched the bloody, dented piece of soggy driftwood get yanked, pulled, and drowned by the ocean, sink deep into its depths, she imagined what it could be like. She imagined the numbing sting of cold, the sensation of breathlessness, the wet. 

She remembered. 

_“Nah, I think that’s it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated! When it comes down to it I can never think of what to say in these notes...


	22. Deep Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it crazy that Spongebob is gay? Ahaha who could have guessed. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the long delay. Biggest issue has been figuring out how to write shit for Dusty, a character I'm making abundantly clear is bored out of her fucking mind. But that's gonna be solved in the nexxxt chapter! Which will be longer than this one, I promise.

Dusty dreamt in blue, black, and white. She was chained to a pillar on the ocean’s floor. Past the schools of black fish and dark blue water was an even vaster sea of white stars, bright and glaring and cold. Black space stretched all around her, waiting beyond the edge of all the water, and Dusty could scarcely tell if the space began minutes or millennia away from where she was chained. She couldn’t see the border between ocean and abyss; maybe space was just where the fish didn’t swim. The scene was odd, but not threatening. The water wasn’t wet, thankfully. It flowed through her hair like a constant breeze. She didn’t remember quite what the breeze felt like, so she imagined a tingling on her scalp where the soft current gently pulled at her hair. 

Months ago, had Dusty found herself chained to the bottom of an ocean that lurked separately in a vaster cosmos, like an oil spill distinct from the sea, she’d have realized she was dreaming. Dusty rarely dreamt fantastical things. Her best dreams were fuzzy reruns of moments from her life, more fragmented and worn with each visit back, like a beloved vinyl record; flooded with so much bliss that she didn’t see the holes, the blurred faces, the spoken sounds without speech. The stench of something long dead buried by scented candles and potpourri. Her worst dreams, though, were bricks through glass; mangled limbs broken in the way that never stops hurting even when they can move, be stood on and swung again. There was nothing fantastical there either: pain was remembered pain, chases always ended one way, and the monsters were all shaped the same — Him. Months ago, however, Dusty could feel the breeze; her dreams had since gone wild, and she did not realize she was asleep and break the spell. So, in that dream, when she saw the flash of a fourth color, she didn’t pinch herself awake. She didn’t know better. 

It began as a distant dot. It turned, and revealed a line. The line became string. The string tied itself to a star, pulling forward until it was rope. The rope stretched itself out, twisting around asteroid and planets and nebulas themselves, and Dusty saw that the rope had eyes. The eyes grew as did the rope, which was now a coil. The coil slunk across Saturn’s belt, growing closer, and Dusty saw that the coil had fangs. The python that stalked the cosmos was a familiar color, but she could not remember why. All she could remember was around her — blue, black, white. Then, Dusty looked down at herself and the python’s color was named. She didn’t realize she was in a dream yet, but wanted to wake up regardless. The snake was waiting just outside the sea’s skin, staring at her, hungrily. 

It winked. 

Before, Dusty didn’t really dream: she was a ruined record spinning on loop, sputtering her scratches and buzzing her warmth. All these memories were too bright or too dark. Now, Dusty dreamt fantastical things, given no choice. And the colors were always too clear. 

Now, when Dusty dreamt, she dreamt of pink. 

The snake’s fangs punctured the skin of her world, and she screamed. 

* * *

Blind wasn’t an unusual state for Dusty to be in when she woke up, but blind with her curtains closed at 4 a.m. was a new low. The blob of bright that cut through her eyelids was directly above her, which was pretty fucking odd considering Dusty’s room’s light was nearer to the door. Also considering it was 4 a-fucking-m and she lived alone. With that last thought in mind, she was tempted to nail the windows shut, not for the first time and not for the last. The dream hadn’t helped. Her head throbbed. The distant sound of bird squawking didn’t help either. 

Right, the blinding light. 

Dusty weaved fingers in front of her face, and opened her eyes, slightly. She could see a bit out the sides — room cast in an ethereal, not-quite-fluorescent glow. The stinging was lessening. She braced herself, then cracked open part of the shield formed by middle and index finger. Dusty got an image with the pain like she’d spent a solid week crouched over, staring at a screen, then tried to stand up. The image wouldn’t have been enough to go off of if it wasn’t so familiar. 

A glowing white oval. 

Dusty was making portals again. This should have been less lame and aggravating than it was. There was likely now a matching portal suspended possibly several dozen yards above her roof. Depending on how loud she had screamed. It had been weeks since she’d last made one, and she could never pin down precise conditions that led to it. The general conditions were: screaming and upset. Dusty met those general conditions far too often though, and hadn’t seen a portal in weeks, so something was missing. She sighed. Now was as good a time as ever. Getting out of bed always sucked, no matter what. Even with superhuman strength, pulling herself up felt like a stacked match against gravity. Getting upright, finally, brought no satisfaction, and soon as she sat up, there was a loud, wet noise behind her. She turned around. Right center on her pillow, bullseye, was a fat, soggy pile of bird shit. Dusty looked up at the portal. The squawking in the background of her mind reinstated itself. 

“For fuck’s sake,” she said. 

* * *

As far as anime went, trees had it pretty bad. They seemed to be nature’s punching bags for spunky protagonists with magic powers; and although Dusty did not in any way consider herself protag material, and she’d sincerely kill anyone who called her “spunky”, she did have magic powers. So, joining the ranks of Naruto, she found herself no exception in the genocide of the arborious. 

Dusty strolled by her growing line of stumps to the next victim. She’d been tending to this expanding orchard of desecrated trees for a while now, almost two weeks. It was so easy to raise too: Dusty just found a tree and blew it to fucking smithereens. She’d gotten the idea first during one of her (being honest, daily) excursions to FishStew Pizza. There, she’d overheard a conversation between Steven Universe and the purple one about some rogue, song-immune gem that was blowing up trees and rocks with her fists. Dusty had two thoughts to that. First was: “Wow, a butch that murders trees and boulders with her fists. That’s the hottest sentence in the world.” 

Second was: “I could probably do that too.”

Dusty could not, apparently, do that too, and repeated attempts turned her fists into pulp. After healing, however, she remembered the whole “shooting sonic blasts from my hands” thing, and figured that was worth training instead. Here’s what Dusty already knew: She can shoot concussive blasts from her palms, feet, and mouth; however, she can only do this after her heart beats, when she then releases the tugging sensation she gets in her chest into the aforementioned pathways; unfortunately, Dusty’s heart _typically_ beats in the minute-or-more increments; the intensity of the blast is determined by the length of time after her heart beats that she uses it, immediately being the strongest, and just as the feeling fades being the weakest. 

Here’s what Dusty learned: “typically” because, like hearts tend to, when Dusty’s adrenaline goes up, the more often it beats, and the more often she can use her power — she has not noticed a difference in strength between these more frequent blasts and the standard ones; the most frequent she can make the blasts come is forty-three seconds, but it’s generally hard to spike one’s adrenaline when one can’t feel pain, much strain, or fear of danger (Dusty’s attempts at running around Beach City, shouting “Fight me” at random buff gems has so far yielded nothing but a lecture from Steven, though she could be talking to the wrong ones — keeping that tree-puncher in mind); lastly, it is a very stupid idea to try forming a “Rasengan” out of concussive blasts — it doesn’t work and the act of having her fingers curled over her palm lost Dusty the tips of all five digits. They grew back and it was funny, but not very useful in a fight, she decided. 

She still didn’t know how to make fucking portals. And so, Dusty spent the rest of the night, and a generous bit of morning, in her orchard of shattered trees, screaming at the sky. 

* * *

Nephrite hated her boss, a lot. Both of them, actually. The first boss she hated for her annoyance: the way that gem, three times her size, would slap her back in “camaraderie” so hard Nephrite feared her gem would dislodge itself from her forehead and fly through the front of the ship; how she yelled so much, just for everything; how she would ask her some stupid question about flying, and then zone out as Nephrite gave an explanation suited for a pebble’s comprehension level; how she _chewed with her mouth open_. 

The second boss, her first boss’s boss, she hated for her arrogance: a true classic Era 1 homeworld upper crust, Agate made it _very apparent_ that she was better than everyone around her, constantly, like every damn opportunity; she would always lean over Nephrite’s shoulder while she entered in the half-assed inputs Agate had likely misread from her superiors, and then she’d make stupid noises the whole time (“mmmm”s and “ahhhh”s and “tut”) as if she knew what the fuck the ship was even _made_ of; her insistence that Nephrite appear busy at all times, even though usually a flight was a _straight shot for lightyears_; that stupid speech about her whip that made the haughty gem tear up every time she said it, which was every _fucking_ mission. The only positive to Fire Agate was an aesthetic one, in that her gem was admittedly gorgeous — bubbles of gold, shining with scales of greens and blues and magenta. Even then, it almost seemed comical that such a thing was the core of such a miserable clod. 

Nephrite hated them both, so so so much. Thus, she’d felt suitably proud of herself when the Open-Mouth-Chewer propositioned her for another “secret mission” and the Pilot had told that back-slapping prick she wouldn’t work for any less than_ triple_ her previous cut, which was admittedly already very high (hence her even putting up with it all for so long). She figured it’d be the most satisfying way to tell those two clods to piss off. It might have been the highlight of her life. 

So, color her shocked (green, apparently) when the oafish Quartz comm’d her up the next week, agreeing to the outrageous demand, and tripling her pay. 

“It’s not worth it,” she told herself. 

“Have some basic self-respect,” she said. 

“Corruption and shattering at once are preferable,” she decided. 

Nephrite remembered all of these points as she stared at the ship’s trajectory screen before her. She remembered all of these points as Quartz slapped her back in greeting, asking what she was doing, and spitting rotato chops or whatever onto her exhausted face. She remembered all of these points as Agate paced back and forth behind her, yelling to “speed it up!” again and again, in between breaking out into a series of thoroughly rehearsed haikus about the benefits of a caste system. 

Nephrite remembered all of these points, and quietly prayed to something, anything beyond herself, that every gem aboard that ship would die horribly upon reaching whatever shithole they planned to scavenge.

A shithole that was now in view. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending only good vibes to Nephrite's crew - thoughts and prayers :)
> 
> Also wanted to really establish the rules and parameters of Dusty's powers for some uhhhhh stuff coming up. 
> 
> Make sure to comment! I'll definitely respond this time! 
> 
> (Unless I don't understand what you've said or can't think of a funny joke.)


	23. Whirlwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's two months between friends? I'M SORRY I'M ALREADY WELL ON THE WAY WITH WRITING THE NEXT ONE
> 
> Enjoy a somewhat longer chapter! 100% Dusty-free, organic and local.

In the long eons past of Era One, it was customary for an Agate to take the first step upon the ground of any land they wished to conquer for the glory of the Diamond Authority; to make the first stride upon all solid ground in any service to Homeworld, demonstrating to her subordinates fearlessness in the fulfillment of her duties. As a proud member of the New Era, Agate followed this procedure graciously. She took exactly one inspiring step off the ramp of her ship, onto the dusty ground, then waited as she signaled for her subordinates to march forward and get to it already. This place was creepy as all shit, and if anyone was going to get shattered, better it be anyone but her. 

First exited the Quartz, who snickered mockingly as she passed Agate, who was now pulling an Era Two imperial flag from

her gem, and appropriately stabbing it into the ground. Rather ineffectively — hence the brute’s mirth — as she was trying to impale pavement with a flat-based stick. Fire Agate muttered something to herself about how these things really should have been pointier, until Quartz casually snatched the flag from her hands and slammed it through the stone without resistance. She smiled, crookedly. Agate suddenly found immense interest in scanning the horizon for dangers, just as any good leader should. 

Second exited the Ruby, who bounded down the ramp with her typical obnoxious enthusiasm, weaving down, never moving in a straight line as if she were under constant fire from an imaginary enemy. Which, in her mind, was probably true. She stopped briefly beside Agate, giving the flag a customary salute, which earned a nod from Fire that went unnoticed by the Ruby, who then cartwheeled off the ramp. Whatever they were paying her was too much, Agate decided. 

Third exited the. . . Ugh. The Topaz. The massive hulking gem, stronger and more resilient than any of them, hesitantly snuck down the ramp, shaking and darting her head back and forth. She pushed her hands together just under her chin, scrunched up her shoulders, and waddled along with knees bent and head down. The giant was obviously terrified, trying her hardest to appear as small as possible. It would be laughable if Agate’s life wasn’t potentially in this loser’s hands. After what seemed like an hour of fearful half steps, the Topaz finally passed Agate at the bottom of the ramp. She couldn’t even make eye contact, despite being several heads taller. 

What a coward, Agate thought with disgust, as she moved forward in the shadow of Topaz; positioning herself strategically to use the lumbering gem as a shield. 

The Nephrite stayed in the ship, deaf to anything important that might happen because of her “headphones”. 

All present gems congregated around the Quartz (who to Agate’s displeasure assumed a natural leadership role when it came to the field) who raised one hand over her head: the agreed-upon “stop” gesture. Agate momentarily peered past the elbow of the shivering Topaz to see what had stopped them. What she saw was odd. At their feet, stretched out for several yards, was a field of. . . rocks. Not a random spattering of rocks, either, as one would expect from a long-abandoned asteroid such as this. It took about a full thirty seconds to appreciate the scope, but spread before the gems’ feet was a grid of rocks spanning almost as far as the size of the ship they arrived in. The rocks varied in size and shape — some small with smooth edges, some big with sharp edges — but were. . . organized accordingly. Rough, more jagged rocks were to the left, then gradually became smoother as Agate cast her eyes right. By her feet she finally noticed where the grid actually began, and it began with rows and rows of dust. 

“Uhhh,” Ruby began, somewhere to Agate’s left; she wasn’t sure anymore, just transfixed on what was in front of her. “Uhhhhhhh,” Ruby continued, “There’s writing, I think, um...” This did certainly realign Fire’s attention. She walked hastily over to where the stammering guard pointed. Sure enough, along the side of the grid was writing, separated at regular intervals corresponding to the spacing of the rows. The writing, however, was unfamiliar. Agate could not read a single bit of it: it wasn’t gemglyph. 

Quartz tapped her shoulder. They met eyes briefly, and Agate nodded. She raised her right hand high in attention, signaling to the other gems. She turned to Topaz, and traced a wide circle in the air with her finger — their practiced sign to make an outer perimeter. Topaz, to her minor credit — “minor” for the shaking — gave a nod and a salute and nervously set off. Then Ruby, who had finally stopped stammering and was saluting in attention, she just pointed to and then to herself. Ruby beamed — she was to be Agate’s guard. Not that she needed one, of course. To Quartz she just gave another glance. The rough gem knew what to do: maintain position in the center, orbit the grid, be ready. 

When one spends so much time with an other, even a glance can speak when words might fail. Even if one hates the other’s light-solid guts. A gem Fire Agate did not understand was Ruby, who, as they patrolled through the withered paths of the outpost, insisted on dodge rolling into every shriveled bush and flower cropping they passed. Then, there was the music, a soundtrack improvised on the spot by the incessant gem to match whatever sporadic movements her body was making at the time. Agate would have disciplined her immediately, but every time she turned her head back to shout, she was distracted. There seemed to be a blur, a shifting something in the corner of her eye; shadows danced and haunted her periphery. Always too fast to be seen. Her mind was playing tricks — acting as chief jester to a circus of fools was taking its toll. She was losing it. 

A loud crack nearly shot Agate through the brim of the atmosphere. She turned her head in its direction the instant the violent tremors in her legs stopped. (Lessened.) As usual in these cases, she was met with Quartz’s crooked, dipshit grin, shinning and hideous in the distance. The buffoon’s microscopic attention span seemed to have dwindled into nanospace, and she’d chosen to rectify this by picking up a couple of the rounder blue stones and hurl them at the nearby floating columns. 

Agate stomped her foot. “For the love of minerals, what are you doing?!” She hissed it out, as if she meant to be quiet. She didn’t know why. 

“Pitching,” Quartz answered simply, and tossed a new rock once, twice into the air, testing its weight. 

“Well stop! Your boredom doesn’t justify making some gem poof from shock!” 

The Quartz didn’t stop tossing the rock up and down. She quirked an eyebrow. “Some gem such as..?”

“Topaz,” Agate answered, too quickly. “Or. . . Or Ruby!” 

The gem nodded slowly. “Uh huh, you got it, boss. No more pitching at columns.” 

Agate nodded — not grateful, just unwilling to waste any more vowels on such a stupid conversation. It was before she had a chance to pull her eyes from Quartz that the ruffian turned and pelted another rock at the same target. The crack was louder this time, and the rock shattered into a cloud of blue. Agate reached for her whip, screaming, “What did I just say?!” 

Quartz shrugged. “Not a column. That right there is a pillar. Technically didn’t disobey orders.” She dropped the other rock she’d been palming, bowed, and walked off, continuing her route. 

Fire turned and marched off without any more regard for the clod; she did, however, say loudly, “Not I who shattered her, Emerald. It was my whip that crushed her gem into dust. Technically didn’t disobey orders.” She dutifully ignored Quartz’s giggling behind her. Sick of that disrespectful bruiser, sick of the pathetic crew, sick of these dull missions. Agate glared around her, spitefully surveying the shriveled flora of this abandoned dump. She was miserable at the thought of spending the hours necessary here to scavenge any worthwhile tech, and dig deep into the dry dirt and pry loose the atmospheric plates this installment clearly contained; not to mention, search every square inch for whatever was assembling blue rocks for whatever reason. Agate paused and turned her head back. She then looked forward again, then to her left and right. She turned 360 degrees one last time before she stopped, facing exactly where she’d just been. There wasn’t a warp pad in sight. There was always supposed to be a warp pad in sight. In might not be working, but at least it should be there. 

The blue rocks, she wondered anew, before shaking the thought off. It was no concern to her. At worst, they’d find some lunatic gem, long stranded, grateful enough for a ride away that she’d ask no questions about what Agate and her crew were doing here. She nodded, then stumbled over a desecrated vine. Most of all, in that moment, she was just sick of the garden, miserable at the organic rot, at the endless dust, the oppressive silence. At the. . .

Silence. 

Where was Ruby? 

Agate turned around again and again, now-panicked eyes darting over every piece of the landscape around her. When had she heard Ruby last — seen her last, for that matter? She re-examined every shriveled bush the mindless gem had dove into, whose once weak branches now seemed like gnarled, sharp fingers. Formerly annoying tall weeds were now camouflage. The silence didn’t feel like an openness which would alert any of her team to any scrape of stone or snapping branch; rather a cover, which muffled footsteps and strangled her voice. She wished to call out to Quartz, but knew if it was just her imagination, she’d never hear the end of it. The clod already felt a misplaced superiority towards Agate in the field. Before she realized it, she’d found herself in a particularly isolated part of the garden, with gangly dwarf trees grown wild over her head into an arch; bare branches locked together to form a shoddy ceiling that hinted at the starlight above. The artificial wind chaffed tired wood against itself, and with the noise she thought she imagined the sudden whoosh that cut the air. 

The first swing missed Agate by accident, as she’d bent over to examine a footprint in the dust. The second swing missed her when she shrieked and fell backwards on her rear, hands waving in front of herself for balance and protection. A gangly figure, mistaken for one of the trees, slid forward. The third swing didn’t miss. Everything went fuzzy for a minute; the only clear sensations were her own lightheadedness and every granule of dirt beneath her right palm, now pressed to the ground to keep her from collapsing. Fuzziness cleared, the sensation of dirt left too as Agate realized she was being lifted high into the air. She had just a second before that ascension turned to a plummet and she crashed to the ground, though not as hard as her assailant might have hoped. As the dust began to clear, she popped the bubble she’d hastily formed beneath her head, and did her best impression of near-unconsciousness. 

Everything was still. The crash of her body had birthed a relative silence so heavy Agate faintly heard the dust settle around her. She felt something loosen around her waist, a tightness she’d failed to notice in her shock — killing the quiet by swift mass sliding off her and through the settled dust. Then, another sound — inappropriate, as if violating the established ebb and flow of tense silence and subtle noise — moved towards the lying gem. The sound was squeaking, in the rhythm reserved for lumbering footsteps or lethal tiptoes. Agate had to restrain herself from raising an eyebrow. 

She waited until the horrible noise seemed closest to her head before she shot up, hoping the surprise would give her time to make it to her feet. It did, and on the spin she made to face her attacker, she loosed the whip from her belt and swept it in front of herself. Past the shine of her fiery whip, the attacker appeared again as just a shape, dancing back — motions drastic and elongated as if she really was fighting a shadow on the wall. She flicked her wrist, cracking the whip further forward still, almost taking a step up before recovering her judgement; instead she hopped back with her furthest leg, sliding the frontward one along with it — practiced footwork gliding her smoothly across uneven terrain. The figure dodged until it reached a line of tall grass, at which it appeared to fall out of sight, as if beyond the grass was a cliff edge it had dove off. 

Agate backed quickly out of the dead grove, keeping her whip in motion in a wide arc before herself, where the shadow had disappeared. She gripped the swinging forearm with her other hand, sliding her fingers up to her wrist without breaking the rhythm of the whip; after a brief flash of gold the telecommunicator was brought to her face. She spoke quickly, quietly, and seriously: “Quartz, I need you. Scenario: Lunar Eclipse. Maneuver: Twirling Sun. Northeast, 260 from ship.” 

It took fourteen seconds for Quartz to reach her. No sound, just a sturdy back pushed against her own. “How big?” Agate asked soon as she registered the soldier’s presence. A muscular arm shot out into her peripheral, at its end a hand held a boulder — blue like the others, almost too jagged for their use, but acceptable. She sighed. “You’ll have to do it.” 

Quartz gave no verbal response, and she couldn’t see her face, but Agate knew she was smiling. She reached back again to her gem, this time pulling out a bottle of clear liquid; she tossed it high into the air, and less than a second later up went the massive rock, cutting through the bottle and staining its edges with the colorless wet. Agate ceased twirling her whip and shot it straight up, the instant it made contact with the rock, the mineral’s surface burst into flame. The whip’s final few meters wrapped themselves firmly around the rock, finishing their net just as it reached its zenith; when Agate smoothly passed the handle into Quartz’s palm, the rough gem scoffed. “Will never know how you fucking do that,” she said, before directing the fall of the inferno outward, and spinning its length above her head. 

Agate kept her eyes busy darting back and forth across the breadth of her side of the circle, keeping note of the space to the edge of her vision, the space between the two gems that attack was most likely to come from. But that’s not where the grass suddenly rustled, and a shape darted from its foliage. Though her eyes passed right over it, she almost noticed the tall shadow too late. It popped up just beyond the Twirling Sun’s radius, right in front of Agate. She was shocked as it began sprinting straight towards her, a thing twice her height barreling right into range of light-destabilizing flame. As she reached back again to her gem, Agate saw the shadow mirror her intent — a large hand reached up to its chest, which then glowed. Agate pulled her dagger out, bracing herself and yelled, “Seven feet! Center mass!” 

It wasn’t much of an adjustment. Quartz pulled the path of the flame to the correct level just in time to reach the lanky gem. Agate almost smiled. Then the shadow repeated its trick in the grass, and sunk to the ground, just as it finished pulling a sharp rock from its chest. The gem didn’t just fall to the ground the way Agate might’ve; the gem shrunk down, and Fire realized something. The size it was now was the size it was when she was first attacked. It had only recently let Agate think it was so tall. 

Did it. . . trick me? 

The shadow was meters away now, the arm which held the sharp stone pulled back and ready to strike. Agate could only scream a name, and a quarter second later the gem it belonged too swept her aside with a leg to the waist. As she fell, time slowed down. She watched Quartz face the form-shifting shadow head on, fearlessly; the soldier stood perfectly still, save for her arms. Her left kept the steady path of the Twirling Sun, lowered to adjust for the gem’s change in height; which was then accounted for by their attacker, who simply dodged lower. Quartz’s right arm moved towards her left, her hand catching the flaming whip. In the second before physics could adjust, the soldier twisted her right wrist around, turning the Twirling Sun’s horizontal path into a vertical one. The fiery line passed between the falling Agate and the stoic Quartz, missing both by inches; an upward-rising pendulum, now barreling right towards the shadow. 

But Agate stopped watching the plummeting inferno; her eyes had fallen faster than it could have and caught the shadow sooner. She watched it instead. Once again, it seemed like the figure had mirrored her action, for as soon as her sight fell upon it, she noticed its own eyes moving down from the imminent death above. . . To Agate. Their gaze met. In the firelight, she could see beyond the shadow. She could see its eyes now. They bore into Agate’s own, and despite the approaching doom, seemed gleeful. A scene played out in her mind as things became grimly apparent. In the second before the burning boulder crushed down upon it, in the several meters between Agate and it, the shadow could close the distance and kill her. Agate knew it, and she could see that it— no, she knew it too. 

Instead of moving forward, though, instead of finishing her off, the shadow dodged backwards, out of the flaming pendulum’s reach. Grinning as she fled. 

The shadow was having fun. 

The instant she knew the strike would miss, Quartz gave another twist to the flaming cord, yanking to shift its likely cratering of the ground to a mere scraping of it. With the force of Quartz’s control, the boulder barely slowed as it took several handfuls of dirt and dead turf upwards with it. She spun it by her side, yet again searching for the shadow amongst the dark garden. The soldier chuckled. “I love that move, the stinging in my hand is always worth it.”

Agate cautiously scrambled to Quartz’s other side, wary of the scorching fan to her partner’s right. “She might be smarter than us,” she said. Quartz gave her an odd look over her shoulder. It wasn’t the sort of thing Fire would usually say; maybe she hadn’t even meant to verbalize it. She shook her head. “This gem can shapeshift, more naturally than I’ve ever seen. We can’t assume size. Burnt Earth might be necessary — as close to the ground as you can manage.”

“That means...” Quartz trailed off. She was making Agate say it. 

“Yes, yes. Bend over.” 

Despite Agate’s instruction, Quartz simply hoisted her up into her arm, effortlessly; bicep along the back, and her large hand under Fire’s legs, holding her thighs. The stupid oaf was smirking. Agate blushed angrily. She hated Burnt Earth. She focused her attention down, lowering her hand to Quartz’s foot; she formed a bubble in front of her, which the soldier gracefully scaled and balanced a single foot on. 

Quartz shot the whip outward, releasing it from the sideways rotation, and began to twirl. She managed to spin the flame far faster than before. Agate needed to get her back, though. “You know what you look like right now?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“A Pearl. Dancing.” 

“Mmm,” the Quartz grunted. “This doesn’t feel worth it anymore.” 

With the rate of the spinning — the blur of the scene around her — it was hard to judge the time as it either crawled or flew by. She’d heard before that many gems got dizzy from just this much; gratitude didn’t describe how she felt at not being among them. It was difficult to guess if it’d been too long since the rogue gem had last acted, and she should be wary; or if their maneuver had bought them the appropriate protection, and she should be relieved. Agate watched the flaming boulder dip an inch in flight and brush a stunted tree; by the time she’d rotated again, it was engulfed. Would the garden burn to ash before they were done, she wondered. Then, Agate saw a glittering bounce out from the dark. She almost shouted to Quartz the instant she saw it — movement caught her nerve before her mind could catch up. She waited, however, and on the next rotation, realized it was merely a sparkling pebble. It wasn’t blue, though, like the other shiny rocks they’d seen. Before she crossed it again, she watched another skip across the now-burning grass. It was hard to be certain from the presence of the flame, but the pebbles looked red. Quartz must have been paying attention too, because as a third tiny red pebble danced into view, she spoke the question Agate wouldn’t have even been able to consider. 

“Where’s Ruby?” 

“She’s,” Agate began simply enough, before catching her next word in her throat. She forced it out. “Missing.” 

There wasn’t any feeling in Quartz’s reply. “Not anymore.” As if to punctuate the chilling statement, another red pebble skipped into few. Agate asked if they were being mocked, but Quartz shook her head. “Can’t say I’m unfamiliar with the technique. Used to do this on Earth; nothing breaks a gem’s focus — or will — like scattering their comrades’ dust across the battlefield.” 

Agate stuck out her tongue, though she doubted Quartz could see it. “That’s disgusting,” she said. “Who’d even come up with such a thing?”

“Blue Diamond,” Quartz replied. 

“Though there is a clear brilliance to it,” Agate hastily admitted, then paused. “Wait, Blue? That seems more like. . .”

“Yellow? Nah, Blue was always better at coming up with fucked up stuff.” 

Agate almost replied to what Quartz said, then caught motion in her peripheral. Her mind had just become accustomed enough to the pebbles to stop panicking at any flash of something bouncing into their perimeter; so it took a second before she realized the shape was much bigger than a fractured gem shard. When she did realize this, she tightened her grip on Quartz’s wrist. Words were unnecessary — the soldier sped up. Though the shadow might dodge the rock, the flaming whip would still catch her. Then part of the shadow began to glow; she pulled something long from her gem. She was about two meters away — the whip closing in — when she put the object between herself and the fiery cord. 

Agate almost replied to what Quartz said, but then the shadow shot out from the bushes and caught the whip’s path with a long rock, redirecting the boulder’s trajectory toward the spinning center. She couldn’t say anything over Quartz mumbling, “That’s my move...” under her breath, a second before the flaming boulder struck her in the chest. 

Agate almost replied to Quartz, but now flying from her partner’s arms, embers and dust out with her, she couldn’t remember what she’d have said. She saw the extension of the muscular arm that held her, realized she must have been thrown aside at the last second. Is that why Quartz didn’t have time to shield her own gem? Though she couldn’t remember, Agate could easily guess what she’d have said: further praise for the Diamond(s). Her partner’s eyes went blank; the boulder must have hit her gem. Maybe Agate would have chastised her for suggesting Blue Diamond was in any way twisted. She hit something, maybe a tree or a bush; she didn’t have time to decide exactly what she’d landed on before feeling the larger gem’s body crashing into her own, and demolishing the now formless tree or bush behind her. 

The smaller gem struggled in the dust and soot and splinters, under the significant weight of the larger gem. The larger gem who wasn’t moving. Agate couldn’t flip the Quartz over, but after extraneous effort she did manage to slide enough of her body out to check the state of the soldier’s gem. 

Cracked. Badly. She fingered its edges, ‘til she saw the newly-made lines shift, heard them scrapping against each other. She winced. The heavy body on top of her seemed to grow lighter, its color and outline flickered. Now, Agate felt dizzy. In everything she saw, form seemed to fall apart: horizon melted into grass, which melted into dirt, which melted into them. She was seeing her own limbs wavering into Quartz’s when the other gem blinked. Just like that, the world was cut back into its proper order. The dizziness stopped. 

“She hit me,” Quartz said. 

“Yes.” This was all Agate could manage. 

“With my own attack... Did it look cool or dumb, when I tanked that blow?” 

“Dumb.” She tried not to cringe when Quartz spoke, but the other gem’s voice just sounded wrong. Her form was quivering, and her voice didn’t seem to be coming from her mouth. When she spoke, it sounded and felt like the words were leaking from her skin. All Agate could think to say next was, “You shouldn’t call Blue Diamond fucked up...” 

Quartz laughed. Agate regretted it; she could see the pieces of her body glitching apart. The breaking gem did her best to shrug, but the effect was lost when her right shoulder seemed to keep sliding upward, before resetting, then sliding up again, on a loop. She didn’t seem to notice. “Not like she’s even our boss eromyna. K-Keep in dinm whose ssa you actuyllu have to ssik.” 

Agate just nodded. Quartz was technically wrong, but correcting someone who was now speaking half-backwards didn’t seem important. With nothing to reply to, Quartz slowly closed her eyes. Her outline started to fade faster, her colors bled together. Agate needed to keep her talking. It didn’t matter what. 

“Why’d you even join the New Era, anyway? You don’t even care about what the hybrid Pink has done.” 

There was a silence after that. An eternity in which Agate just watched the fading gem in her arms. Quartz didn’t open her eyes, but eventually spoke. “Made ot thgif. What esle dluoc I do? toN ekil you; no gnol tsil of reassno yhw I etah kniP, but she did ekat ym esopurp.” 

“You must be happy then, dying in combat.” Agate didn’t so much care what she said, or where the conversation went, just that it kept going, that there be no pause. It became harder for her to filter. 

“ev’dluoW neeb, fi uoy hadn’t told em I dekool lame!” Quartz laugh sounded like harsh static. It became harder to read her face, as her features began to spill into each other; but Agate could have sworn Quartz started to look sincere. “tahT tn’saw tahw made it htrow ti hguoht.” 

“What did?” 

Quartz clenched her teeth, which had begun phasing into each other, and tried her hardest to say something. But all that came out was noise, indecipherable. Like a breaking machine. The soldier in Agate’s arms burst into smoke. The leader felt fear. It was strange how the mind tied things together. In that haze, cut off from the light of the stars, from the garden, it became easier for Agate to drift off. She remembered the last time she’d been afraid: forehead pressed hard to the floor, begging forgiveness from the towering gem above her — the Gold General that watched her tremble with bored eyes. Just months ago, she’d been punished, torn from her high status and stuck yelling at idiots to scavenge abandoned junk. It had come to this: kneeling in foreign dirt, undifferentiated from the cloud of her former comrade that lazily dissipated around her, settling into that unkempt floor and becoming a part of it. 

A hand shot through the last wavering specks of the light that was once called Quartz, and seized Agate by the throat. It lifted her quite easily, which came as a shock, since she was convinced she’d fused to the ground and would never move again. The hand slid around Agate’s entire body, ending on her wrist, clenching her gem tight. Before the cloud dissipated entirely, she was pulled through it, until she hovered a mere foot from her attacker. Who, she could see now, was a Spinel, smiling in a way very inappropriate for her title. A Spinel, who just obliterated a Quartz. 

Agate began to laugh. Spinel stopped smiling. 

“What’s so funny?” The clown asked. 

Agate pictured the first time she’d ever been afraid. The middle of Blue Diamond’s court, saluting so hard she worried her fingers would snap. She remembered her Diamond’s admonishment, that she, an Agate, could let something as horrible as unsupervised fusion happen under her command. How she shook watching the god shatter Agate’s entire escort in front of her, all sentenced to death for their complicity. The gratitude she felt toward her Diamond for sparing her alone. Agate remembered all this and wondered, briefly, what the fuck she’d spent the last months of her life doing. The grip tightened. 

“I said, ‘What’s so funny?’” The pink, spiked Spinel — a jester, a servant gem, a harmless toy — asked Agate, again. 

Agate shook her head, composing herself before answering. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, chuckling again. “I think my entire worldview just fell apart. Pardon my interruption, please do continue.” 

Spinel stared at her for a few seconds, shrugged, and smiled again. 

———————————————————

Nephrite finished her drum solo on the spaceship’s piloting terminal just as the pink finger tapped on her shoulder. Because of this, just a single tap wouldn’t have grabbed her attention. The pink finger tapped over a dozen times. Nephrite turned to see a gem she’d never met before. Pink and skinny. She looked suspiciously. . . Sharp for a non-combatant gem, which is what Nephrite guessed she was given the whole Jester look. Besides her finger, which was still primed and ready to poke, she had one hand behind her back. Nephrite didn’t get any sort of bad vibe from her though. The pink gem smiled sweetly; her curved lips pinched the black lines trailing her face. Nephrite pulled the headphones off. 

“Mind if I get a lift?” The stranger asked. 

“Uh...” Nephrite began, before leaning over in her chair, peering past the gem and out the open door. “I kinda. . . have to wait for some clods to get back first.” 

The pink gem stopped smiling for a moment and nodded thoughtfully; she reaimed her finger towards her own chin, tapping it, appearing to ponder, but almost exaggeratedly. “I don’t think they’re gonna come anytime soon,” she said, after a few drawn out seconds. “Seemed like they’ll stay there for a while.” She shrugged. 

Nephrite narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what they told me would happen.” 

“Hey, you didn’t happen to mess with any of those blue rocks outside, did ya? Like, break them into dust, say?” There was a smile on her pink face again, but Nephrite noticed it didn’t reach her eyes. She’d also completely side-stepped the pilot’s half-accusation. 

“Uh, what rocks? I’m not a field gem; I just fly the ship.” The room felt colder somehow. Thankfully the other gem just brightened. 

“Ah, it’s not important anymore — not since you’re here! So, that ride?”

“I don’t work for free,” Nephrite blurted out. The brightness in the other gem’s face dimmed a decimal, and the pilot wanted to shatter herself. Why the fuck did she even take that stupid “Gem Labor Value” class? She couldn’t back out now, either. She didn’t have enough of a sense of humor to pass it off as a joke, and it had been too long of a pause. 

Oh shit. Oh fuck. 

But the pink gem’s smile actually widened. “That’s no problem. I can pay.” She leaned forward, and the pilot blushed. Finally, the hand behind her back was revealed. A gloved hand trickled gold, blue, and magenta dust onto the terminal. It was very familiar. Nephrite stopped blushing. “That cover it? If not, I betcha I could find some more.” 

The pilot gulped. “Nah, that’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What if we both die tragically in space.... and we're both girls :O"
> 
> Watch my stupid ass literally write a character as obnoxious as possible to make killing her later easy, only for when the moment arrives I decide, "But what if she had depth... and was gay..." 
> 
> Also bubbles are fucking cool and should be utilized in combat more. Cmon, you can all do them, why the fuck ain't I seeing more bubble tech?


	24. Skipping Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH HOW'S THAT? Sooner than you fucking TURKEYS were expecting, I bet? 
> 
> Anyway, realized, horridly, that my protagonist sorta didn't have any direction or goals; and while that is valid for real life, it's kinda boring to read. 
> 
> So here's a chapter that, unlike last one, is completely 100% Dusty!

“So, then she was all, ‘Wow, Dusty. You’re right. I _don’t_ want to celebrate Christmas with my shitty, bigot family,’ and then we fucked on the couch.” Dusty bounced up and down on the comfiest chair in the room, of which there were about four. She couldn’t feel the comfort of it, but she’d sat in it during her court-mandated sessions and the familiarity made coming to a shrink voluntarily just a bit easier. Briefly, she’d wondered if her therapist, who looked like she was pushing fifty, could use it a bit more. The thought was pushed aside when she remembered how much this lady was making per hour, just sitting in a subpar Lazy Boy and nodding with the appropriate timing.

“I think we should try changing course,” Dr Jackson said. “In past sessions, you mentioned Liz’s family a lot, so—“ God, her mouth was weird. She was one of those people whose mouths wrinkled before her eyes, so instead of simple crows feet she moved her lips with the grace of a crinkling chip bag, or a balloon’s puckered asshole. The lines were so defined that Dusty noticed through her shades. Flap flap flap. She also had that old lady thing Dusty noticed: their lips look really wet when pursed. She could tell from the glitter of saliva that. . . Oh. The flapping had stopped. The shrink was now looking at Dusty expectantly with two gray, unwrinkled eyes. 

“Pass,” Dusty said. 

The gray eyes blinked — shut just a second too long. She was clearly losing patience. “Dusty, do you think it’s constructive to say ‘pass’ every time you want to avoid a subject?” 

“You told me I could.”

“Yes, with the assumption that you’d eventually—"

“You know what they say about assume.” Dusty was pressing hard today. Her therapist adjusted in her chair, maybe bracing for whatever came next, realizing her patient was fighting her. For someone who pats paranoid schizos on the back for a living, you’d think she’d get better at concealing that body language. She must have had an easy childhood. 

“Okay. Fair. In that case, maybe we should talk about goal-setting. You’ve done well with that in the past. Would you say you have any current goals, Dusty?” 

“Masturbate successfully.” 

Inhale through creepy mouth, exhale out button nose. “. . . Anything else?” 

Maybe Dusty was pushing too hard. _She_ was the one here for therapy, after all. Best she start, you know, therapying.   
“Make it a week without scream-inducing nightmares would be nice.” 

“You’ve been having nightmares again?” She did a passable job not looking like a shark Dusty had just tossed bloody meat to; just straightened in her chair, subtly rolled her shoulders. 

“Not those. These are about some. . .thing else. I can’t even remember half of the shit in them when I wake up, just that they’re really weird.” 

“Are they usually about the same fear?”

“Always.” 

“What is it?” 

Things had progressed to the point at which Dusty no longer forgot she didn’t need oxygen. However, sometimes slow, steady breathing helped calm her down. Maybe it was familiar, like the comfortable chair she’d just stopped bouncing in. 

“Dusty?” the wrinkled mouth repeated. The windows here were kept open, and though they were far enough that the sea wasn’t visible — blocked by hill and tree and so many man-made blinders — Dusty could still taste the salt on her tongue. She’d read a magazine once (or a Cracked article) that said taste and smell were stronger invokers of memory than even sight or sound. Living day and night on the lip of the world of dirt, before an ever-present ocean with its sickening smells always _invoking_, it was a wonder Dusty hadn’t gone insane. She reminded herself of the room she was in — the gray eyes in its center waiting. 

“A clown,” Dusty whispered. 

Gray widened in seamless sockets. “I didn’t know you were afraid of clowns.”

“Who isn’t? They’re fucking unnerving.” Dusty resumed bouncing, focusing on the up and down over the salt, usually subtle in the air but now crowding it. 

“What’s scary about the clown to you?” 

Again, Dusty stopped bouncing. The gray eyes were replaced in her mind by a different pair — pink spirals framing hungry black holes. She bit her tongue, hard, replacing the taste of salt with iron. “The way she looks at me,” she said with tight lips, words slurred through the wetness pooling in her mouth. 

“The clown is a woman?”

“Can we stop the dream psychoanalysis?!” Dusty yelled, spitting blood on her jeans. “I feel legit crazy right now.” 

Dr Jackson shifted uncomfortably in her seat, eyes unprofessionally lingering on the blood. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” she said, clearly fighting to keep the queasiness from reaching her voice. 

Dusty sighed, and wiped at the stains with her sleeve; she swallowed the blood in her mouth. “You don’t have to be such a simp about it.” 

“I’m not. . . ‘Simp’? Is that some new thing?”

“You know what my dad used to do? That’s what you want me to do, right? Cry about my dad?” 

“I only want you to talk about whatever you feel the need to talk about,” the therapist clarified. 

“Say you want me to cry about my dad, and I’ll tell you.” What had playing fair gotten her? Bloodstained jeans? Dr Jackson, to her credit, didn’t say anything. Or even respond. Dusty stared at her face, but there wasn’t a flinch — occasional blinking and steady breath was all she got back. The wrinkles kept one pattern, never shifting to preclude a reply. She was very stoically refusing to accept the challenge.

Dusty sighed. “Alright, I’m being an asshole. Sorry.” 

“Apology accepted,” Dr Jackson said, quickly; preparedly. 

“I was expecting you to say, ‘No, Dusty, you weren’t being an asshole. I’m paid enough money to deal with this.’” 

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” The pattern framing her lips cut the hint of a smile. Dusty rolled her eyes. 

“. . . Simp. Anyway, once a week, my dad would put a wrench, a stick, and a belt on the table — just say ‘choose’.” 

“Um.”

“I always picked the wrench. Cause fuck him, that’s why.” 

“Dusty,” Dr Jackson said, void of fun. 

“Yes?”

The therapist sighed, lifting a hand to rub her temple before thinking better of it, letting it drift back to her lap. “That’s Matt Damon’s dialogue from Good Will Hunting.” 

There was a long pause then. The two just stared at each other for about a minute, before Dusty groaned, “You _would_ have that movie memorized, wouldn’t you?”

“You didn’t?” Jackson asked. 

Dusty shook her head, “Nah, I looked up the clip on Tubetube in the waiting room.”

“Here I thought only I prepared for my sessions. Nice to know. You were saying?” 

“Okay, fine, fine.” Dusty raised her hands in defeat. There was a moment of contemplative silence before what followed — Dusty looking down again at the reddish stains on her pants. She performed telegraphed breathing, silently mouthing nonsense syllables of encouragement to herself before continuing. Finally, she met the therapist’s eyes again, and spoke, “My father was a drinker, and a fiend. One night he goes off _crazier_ than usual—"

“Alright, point taken,” Dr Jackson interjected. “How are things going with your friends, Dusty?” 

“Okay, that’s not fair. I actually _do_ know the Dark Knight by heart.” 

She did. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Jackson said — something in that reply hurt worse than when Dusty nearly bit through her tongue minutes before. Maybe it was the agreement that she _would_ know an edgy comic book movie line-for-line. 

“That felt back-handed, but okay,” Dusty said, reeling from such a blow, “Uhhhh, let’s see. Lars hates me.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“It’s pretty obvious I make him uncomfortable.” Lars was quite possibly the worst person at hiding his emotions that Dusty had ever met, which was hilarious given how desperately he wanted to keep them hidden. Well, now it was mainly masking discomfort since he’d been adopted into the twisted Found Family of Happy Feelings. Patent trending. 

“Do you try to make him uncomfortable?” Dr Jackson asked, thoroughly cutting to the chase. 

“Damn, you’re catty today,” Dusty said. “I just talk about stuff he can relate to, you know, like a normal person. He doesn’t have to be such a urethra about it.” 

“Try telling me some of the things you talk to him about.” Fuck. 

“Killing myself,” Dusty said, trying to sound casual but delivering it with unintended bluntness instead. 

“Well, you see, that’ll do it — make someone uncomfortable.” 

“He’s been there too. There’s not a whole lot of people you can go to about being a literal zombie, you know. Sorry if I want one single fucking person I can relate to about being a pink _freak_.” For perhaps the first time so far, Dr Jackson seemed to really notice Dusty’s uncharacteristic pants and long-sleeved shirt.   
“But it’s easier for him, I guess. He became undead and suddenly realized — gosh! — being a dick was bad. I went to the other side, came back and just. . .” 

“Yes?” 

“. . . Got worse. It’s like everything that happens to me just makes me worse.” 

“Worse? What do you mean by that?” 

Dusty dug her fingers through her hair. “Miserable?!” she offered. What did she mean? “I don’t know. Just worse, somehow.” 

The therapist didn’t say anything. Sometimes, Dusty would finish her turn and yet Dr Jackson seemed to refuse to talk, to stop her from spilling out. She’d just sit, self-righteous, and wait for her to crack. It worked. 

“I’ve never felt so lonely before.” 

“Well, there’s a goal,” Jackson said, finally gracing the room with her voice. She was sitting up straighter now, exuding pride or something. “Have you spoken to any of your friends, the ones you’d lost contact with?” 

“Lost cause,” Dusty said through her teeth. 

“Meet somebody,” the therapist said, with uncharacteristic directness. It was rare she ever just. . . told Dusty to do something. 

“You want me to get laid?” Dusty asked. 

“That’s certainly an interpretation of what I just suggested,” she said, “but I meant more in terms of building yourself a support system. You’ve mentioned in the past your aunt is. . .” she trailed off, leaving room for interjection. 

Dusty quoted from memory: “‘There’s sickness in you, that he left. I don’t know you’ll ever be rid of it.’” She grinned. “From the last conversation she had with me, over the phone.” 

“That’s why a support system is so important. Did you have anyone to lean on after hearing that?” 

Dusty stared at her for a long time. “No,” she said. “I was alone that night.” The light in the corner seemed to dim. She needed to change the subject, now.   
“I used to work at DisneyLand. Did I ever tell you that?” 

Any potential disappointment on Dr Jackson’s face was shadowed by honest surprise. “No, no you did not.” 

“Yeah, for like, five seconds after coming back to the States. I took the job — some shitty concessions gig — inbetween semesters at art school to pay for supplies after my Aunt cut me off. For a DUI . . . You know you scratch your left ear when you’re trying not to look judgmental?” Dusty started bouncing again.   
“Well, everyone working there was a total freak — legit cult shit. Lily wasn’t an exception, but she didn’t despise me for not knowing The Little Mermaid line-for-line, so. . . She played Mickey Mouse: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and . . . Saturdays?. . . from noon till about 2 PM. The full-body suit actors worked in shorter shifts, cause, well, you try sounding chipper after hours in the Florida Island summer in a fucking fursuit. So, sometimes, Lily would get so overheated that she’d need someone to switch with her early. This was pretty hard to do because Mickey Mouse was supposed to be visible at all times, and also it was against the rules. Normally, Tim or Sarah would fill in, but sometimes if things got desperate enough, she’d turn to me. I usually only had to do this for about twenty minutes, which was great because I could not match that rat bastard’s signature for _shit_ — autographs were out. I just waved and occasionally laughed like I was stuffed with ecstasy.”

Dr Jackson’s wrinkled mouth quivered, trying not to smile. Honestly, she should be paying Dusty for this hot material. She continued, “But you wanna know the worst thing in the world for DisneyLand actors, worse than heat stroke and drunken assholes? The best fucking thing in the world for terminally ill grade schoolers: Make-A-Fucking-Wish. Normally, it’s not so bad; a couple of the actors take photos with a kid that’s more IV drip than child, and as soon as the coast is clear have a good hard cry behind the Jamba Juice where they hide all the cat tunnels. (There is, ironically, a rodent problem at DisneyLand.) Elsa #3 then wipes her face, reapplies her make-up, and is back in time for ‘BreakDancing With Olaf’.   
“And then there’s the actors who play Fairy Godmother.” 

Dusty waited, building a long silence in the room; she gave her therapist a grimace, but let the statement hang in the air. As soon as it seemed Dr Jackson was about to speak up, she continued. 

“See, we had lookouts that stalked the Make-A-Wish posse, and if the kid even hinted that they wanted to see the Fairy Godmother, that lookout would _sprint_ to the nearest one and warn her to emotionally prepare.”

“Why’s that?” Did the older woman even realize she’d leaned forward, just a bit? 

Dusty tilted her head down, raised her eyebrows, baring her irises and cutting them into intense halves — pupils beady, slowly shrinking pinpricks. She tolerated the light spilling in for the effect. When she tilted her head back, her eyes were watering in secret behind the shades. “Why do you think a terminally ill six-year-old would want to see the wish-granting fairy from a movie made a million years ago?” 

“Oh god,” she said, and leaned back. 

“Uh huh. We called the lookout ‘Suicide Watch’. Everyone pitched in. I watched it happen a couple of times. The Fairy Godmother would always have to say some noncommittal bullshit so it couldn’t turn into a lawsuit. They were given breaks after that, since it doesn’t look great to have the actually twenty-five-year-old with fake wrinkles sobbing like a baby in front of the plastic pumpkin carriage. It never became easier to watch, but at least I was safe behind a booth, selling Chip and Dale-spotted socks. That changed my third Saturday.”

Another pause, shorter this time. 

“Lily had been punched in the stomach by a screaming toddler halfway through her shift in the suit; while she was vomiting in a Goofy-shaped trashcan, I was filling in. Unfortunately, news of the impending tragedy came too late for me to flee from where the Godmother that day was stationed. She, being the pro she was, put on her bravest smile; meanwhile, I was wishing that bloated costume had a built-in toilet.   
“The kid came, almost a stereotype: little, too-skinny boy with a baseball cap with Mickey ears to cover his bare head, Jersey with his favorite team, and a fucking pitchers mitt for shit’s sake. I think his mom was pushing him in the wheelchair. He was attached to so many tubes, I was reminded of. . .” Dusty stopped, swallowed her spit, and continued.  
“This time the wish was a little different. See, this poor kid knew he wasn’t gonna live to lose his last baby tooth. He didn’t ask for that. He just asked that he make it to Christmas. It was June and he could barely speak, and the Fairy Godmother broke. She didn’t cry, thankfully, but she froze. It must have been only ten seconds, though it felt like an hour. You could count as the practiced smiles fell from the faces of every adult there. But the kid kept on looking up at her, hopeful. All I could think in that moment was, ‘Wow, I don’t even _like_ these fucking movies,’ before I stepped in. Didn’t introduce myself, wave, laugh — any of the shit I was supposed to do. I just went straight up to the kid, got down on my knee, gave him a hug, and said in the worst Mickey voice you could imagine, ‘Of _course_ you’ll have Christmas, Sam. We all love you.’ To this day I don’t know what that last sentence was about; but, in any case, his mom heard me, and although the kid was grinning, she was less than thrilled. The posse moved on pretty quick after that. I think he went to Splash Mountain next. You know, the super racist one.” 

“What happened after that?” 

“I kept working there for a bit, surprisingly. I think the Godmother must have thanked me a hundred times, but it was hard to tell with all the, you know, snot. Then, after everyone had forgotten about it, I got pulled aside by management. The kid had made it to mid-August and no later. So his mom — the bitch face one — called and complained. Brought up what I said.”

“Did you get in trouble?” 

“No. They went to Lily first, of course. She told them it was someone else working in her suit, but didn’t specifically mention me. I think she hoped that if she made it too inconvenient then they wouldn’t track anyone down and fire them. When they came to me, I told them she was the one in the suit and she got fired anyway.” She must have accidentally looked remorseful, since the next words out of her therapist’s mouth were:

“Do you regret saying that?” 

Dusty stopped her bouncing and relaxed into the chair. “I’d been stealing stuffed animals and Mickey Mouse hats for weeks, selling them for half-price online. So no.” 

Dr Jackson scratched her left ear, before asking, “Is that. . . the reason?” 

Dusty ignored the question. “Wanna know something funny? It came up while we were being grilled, something the mom had said: Sammy didn’t wanna make it to Christmas so he could get some presents or whatever. It was his little sister’s birthday.”

“That’s funny?” Jeez, she was falling apart in her therapy-ical duties. 

Dusty shook her head. “I haven’t told you the punchline yet. An innocent, nice kid died before his balls dropped; someone who despite all the shit he was going through, still put someone else first. And I’m still alive, and always will be. Never disappearing, like a turd in a clogged toilet. Isn’t that hilarious?” 

“I don’t think so. Are you saying he should be alive and you should be dead?”

“Yes.” 

“Why?” Therapists loved that word too much, in Dusty’s opinion. 

“He could probably be happy.” 

“So, that’s why you don’t deserve to live as long as you might? Because you’re miserable in your twenties?” 

Okay. Shots fired. 

“You’re misrepresenting the situation,” Dusty said. She hated these moments in therapy the most. How’d she let herself be cornered like that? She was never good at thinking ahead. 

“Am I?” 

“Yes.”

“Am I though?”

Dusty gritted her teeth. “_Yes_.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re right. What would I know about it?” Dr Jackson wasn’t even trying to mask the bitch in her voice. This sucked, and wasn’t fair. Only Dusty should be allowed to be a dick here; wasn’t that literally what she was paying for? Well, she wasn’t paying for it specifically, but the state was paying on her behalf. To be a dick, she assumed. 

“Fine, I’ll redownload Tinder, or whatever.”

“Technically progress! Very good!” The patronization felt like a 4 out of 10, just above severing her pinkie. “Now, any closing thoughts?” 

Dusty looked at the clock, for the first time that hour. It was five fifty-six. “Yeah,” she said, “time’s up.” 

* * *

  
It ended by throwing some drunken dickhead through some stranger’s beer pong table. Or began. Whatever. 

Tinder had been a fucking bust: ten matches over the course of a few days and not a single one could keep from bringing up the obvious. Either it’d be just the same dumb observation, ask about her filter, or a shitty pick-up line — always the same thing in different words: “Wow, you’re pink.” The last one had kept it out of her messages, until they met in person at the party. Then, it was the first thing she’d said, except with a “shit” at the start. Dusty left her by the front door. She didn’t want to fuck an Italian anyway. 

She couldn’t just leave, though — there was free beer here. Thus, Dusty found herself stranded in a house full of college freshman, her nearly mid-twenties self a relic. Watching two underage kids in tube tops spilled over themselves on the couch, balancing gel shots on their knees and instagramming with their hands, Dusty didn’t feel like she would outlive the stars anymore. It was a profoundly existential experience. The air smelled stale. 

It’s amazing how every party she’d ever been to was a mosaic of a million different images that always made the same picture. A fat white boy puked into the peace lily beside her. Dusty didn’t even flinch; just patted him twice on the back, and walked upstairs. She found a game room, shelves and shelves of every 3-and-up board game she could imagine; which was around, six, since she knew fuck all about board games. The crowd here seemed older at least, like each level of the house grew age like a rat’s tooth. Most of the guys were absorbed in a game of beer pong that betrayed its intensity by the abnormal silence that gripped the players; most of the girls had pressed themselves against the edges of the room, appearing like a mock audience but in reality just hoping to dodge airborne Budweiser lite. 

There was a man — Dusty really did mean a _man_ — out of place by the line of women, standing by a pixie cut blonde chick; he actually made her feel better about being here, as the fucker looked late thirty. The woman had pressed herself against a battered copy of Clue and with each word from the man seemed to try to sink further into the old cardboard. Dusty ultimately didn’t feel like intervening, though she decided to keep an eye on— ah, nope. Hand tightly around a wrist now. 

She was quick across the room, much quicker than she expected, and he was light in her arms, much lighter than she expected. It made the action of swinging a grown man — much taller than herself — over her own head and through a coffee table seem unreal, like she was just pressing button prompts in a first person cutscene. There was an understandable amount of gasping and muttering which followed Dusty potentially paralyzing a man. It was odd that she’d forgotten to consider that humans could break for good. She turned, and the pixie cut chick was staring at her, mouth open; Dusty had to say _something_ and fast. Something cool. Nothing came to mind. 

Well... Nah, that was too stupid. 

“Wow,” the pixie cut chick said, “you’re strong.” 

Dusty nodded. Wait. That was new. 

“Yeah. I’m Dusty. Guess that guy didn’t get the Clue,” she said, pointing to the game by the woman’s shoulder. She went with the stupid line anyway. 

The pixie cut giggled, and Dusty felt some kinda fucking way. “Krystal,” she said. Another shitty rock name. 

First thing’s first though. “You’re not Italian, are you?” Dusty asked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck spaghetti.
> 
> Anyway we're doing the music junk again:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMUbmiXlHww
> 
> Also, giving a shoutout to my dear friend, runobody2, whose She-Ra Buffy AU is so astonishingly good it made me tear up! It's so good! It's SO FUCKING GOOD! READ IT! READ IT PLEASE! (You know if you want -- no pressure you do you.) It's [HERE](https://https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155355/chapters/60955375)
> 
> And in case that link doesn’t work for the THIRD time: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155355/chapters/60955375


	25. Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, uh, one chapter kinda became two. This is basically the first "half" of that immensely long chapter. I'll probably post the next one in a week or so.

Quartz reformed in a graveyard of dark dirt and luminescent dust. She first noticed the quiet, the agonizing absence of noise. This meant the battle was over: she’d lost. She next noticed the dust, the familiar blend of it that sickened her. She noticed Topaz last, quivering by a shattered tree Quartz strongly suspected she’d been knocked through before poofing. Topaz had been despised by Fire, but nowhere near as much as she was despised by Quartz, who considered waiting for the shattered Ruby to show up before speaking to the yellow lump. 

“B-Boss,” Topaz finally managed to sputter out. Looking at the pathetic gem was physically difficult, and only half because Quartz’s left eye was fusing to her ear. “Are you okay?” she asked, really flexing her observational prowess. 

“.citsatnaF” 

“Ah..”

“hA si right, uoy kcuf.” She tried to rub her aching neck, but quit soon as her fingers began to leak into her shoulder. Quartz hardly wanted to ask; she wasn’t a pussy like Topaz though. “pihS?” 

“W-What?” 

Quartz groaned like a sputtering vent. She drew a saucer in the air. Topaz stared blankly, the self-conscious anxiety clawing at her face. The cracked gem tensed her mouth and broke it down into two syllables. The toll of speaking clearly was a clamping of her throat and humming in her teeth. “SH-IP” she managed. 

“Oh!” Topaz looked astonishingly proud of herself for someone who had done no work whatsoever and kept failing at everything imaginable. Then she said, “It’s gone” because of fucking course she did. Quartz didn’t bother nodding, or even looking at the loser anymore; she just focused on her gem, splintered like the wood scattered around her. She conjured out a projection of light, which began to form a shape — her communicator — before the cracks in her gem inflicted upon it; fractured the shimmering light with lines of dark. Quartz held out her hand but all that fell into her palm was several pieces of a communicator, coughed forth from a gem too broken to emit light properly. Turning her hand over and letting the pieces fall shook up a small cloud of golden-rainbow glitter, and Quartz hurt in a way beyond her damage. 

There was a flash then, after which a massive yellow hand held out a communicator to her. Quartz looked at it numbly, then back to Topaz’s face: she was smiling, weakly. (Weak everything, really.) Quartz shook her head — stopping it from sliding off her neck with a firm slap. She pointed a shaking finger from the device to Topaz, hoping desperately that the stupid oaf would understand that, at least. Topaz paused for a long minute, then finally nodded. She clicked on the communicator, tuned into the hidden New Era frequency. An SOS. 

“New Era retrieval and acquisitions team. Field agent Topaz, Facet-7O2A, Cut-5LJ. Requesting emergency extraction from 3rd sector East, 301.67, 661.22, 312.50. Requesting immediate transport to—“

“Earth,” Quartz said. Saying it clearly so suddenly hurt. Topaz looked over at her, confused. 

“Isn’t that... where the enemy is?” 

Quartz gave her the strongest do-it-or-I’ll-fucking-kill-you look she could manage, making the giant shake and nod. She corrected herself into the transmission. If she didn’t know about the fountain, Quartz didn’t care; she wasn’t gonna waste the energy on explaining things to a useless subordinate. The other gem finished soon; she rose up and walked over to the glitching mess on the ground. “We should move you somewhere else. Less... messy.” 

She didn’t bother shaking her head. She just scooped up as much of the glittering dust beside herself as she could fit in her spazzing, half-there, half-not fingers. Holding it up to Topaz, Quartz said, as forcefully, as clearly as she could: 

“Should. 

Be. 

You.”

And passed out. 

* * *

Krystal (who was NOT Italian) was very respectful of Dusty’s boundaries, though clearly disappointed by them; this was fantastic, as that’s exactly how Dusty wanted a hot girl to respond to her saying “no touchy.” So, when she asked to see her Tinder profile, having just learned of its existence, Krystal just held out her hand, palm up, and patiently waited for Dusty’s phone to be dropped into it. She complied. 

“Huh,” Krystal said, as the Minion case-covered smartphone was given to her. “Less cracked than I was imagining.” 

“Thanks, my proctologist said the same thing.” 

Krystal snorted, then flipped Dusty off. “Don’t make me laugh while I’m holding your phone — I spit into a crack!” Dusty opened her mouth, but was cut off. “Whatever you’re about to say, remember I’m holding your phone.” 

Dusty was silent, and the other woman nodded, “Good,” she said. There was a brief, boring pause during which all she heard was the tapping of painted nails on glass. The tapping stopped, followed by another, briefer pause. Krystal peered at Dusty over the yellow and blue-overalled phone. “Your profile bio. . .”

“What about it?”

“All it says is, ‘Dermatologists HATE her!’ and nothing else.” 

“Yeah,” Dusty said. 

“What does that mean?”

“Yeah,” Dusty said. 

Another pause. 

“Does throwing stuff count as touching you?” Krystal asked. 

“No?”

Dusty didn’t quite feel the pillow hitting her face, but it certainly did. 

Sometimes, Krystal asked Dusty harmless, vague questions, like she was ten thousand Buzzfeed quizzes in a person suit. This ranged from the philosophical to the stupid. Like, “Do you believe in love at first sight?” 

“What?” Dusty had asked. 

“You know,” Krystal had said, “like in the movies — Romeo and Juliet, and that kinda stuff. Do you think a person can look at another person for the first time and just know, you know?”

“Uhhh, I think people can be delusional, certainly,” Dusty had answered, which had made Krystal frown. 

Or she’d give her little, quirky prompts. 

“Tell me a contradiction about yourself,” Krystal commanded. 

“Pfft. What?” Dusty said, passing the joint. A long one, so their fingers wouldn’t touch; also cause she was being very generous. Flexing, honestly. “What does that mean?” 

Decorated fingers snatched the weed. “Okay, okay, I’ll give an example: I hate being anxious soooo much, but I love horror movies that scare the crap outta me.” She licked her lips before putting the paper to her mouth, Dusty noticed. 

She thought about her answer for a while. Surprising herself when she waved away her turn. Finally, having decided, she took the joint and blew a puff before speaking. “I love the color blue. I hate clear skies and the ocean.” 

Krystal twisted her head toward her, eyes sparkling. “That’s fucking poetic!” 

Dusty didn’t mind this so much, since it was the result of someone (who was a girl) being interested in her. But, sometimes, Krystal would say things that weren’t harmless. They should have been, but they weren’t. 

It had been a cloudy day, so Dusty suggested they go for a walk. She actually kinda liked the beach when both the endless things she hated were painted gray. When the water looked less warm and more like the jagged knife it really was. When there was an extra barrier in the sky between her and space. She still stayed on the far side of the sand, walking and watching a bare-footed Krystal hop in and out of cold water, shrieking. She’d carried her own flip-flops until she decided to throw them at Dusty, who was now reduced to a butler role; she’d refused and settled for kicking them forward, one by one, until Krystal noticed and fussed. She paused in the water around the point of the boardwalk where the arcade was, picking shells out of the shallowest edge of the ocean and “ooohing” at each one she found, regardless of appearance, before tossing them back into the sea. What may have been a sand dollar was flicked, coin-like, back into the chill foam around her ankles, before Krystal gasped at something else in the water. She bent over and pried a large, swirled conch from the sand. It was presented to Dusty from the distance like an athlete posing with a trophy. Yellow stripes stained the white calcium like piss on snow. Krystal held it to her ear and gasped, then jogged over. 

“You can hear the ocean in this!” Krystal had reached Dusty and started picking beached seaweed from her toes. 

“Yes, science has concluded that’s how shells work.” She cared less about the stupid conch and more about if her funny gag of kicking the other woman’s sandals would be noticed. 

Instead, Krystal noticed the wrong thing. “Oh crap! Is that an arcade?” Dusty flinched. “I haven’t been to an arcade since I was a kid.” 

Krystal tossed the shell over her shoulder and grabbed her sand-crusted sandals, too mesmerized to notice they were dirtier than when she’d taken them off. There were audible squelches with each step she took — wet feet scraping damp sand. Krystal passed Dusty, at each stride the sound of her steps seemed to grow fainter than they should have. She wanted to go into the arcade. Her mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. Dusty heard a wave crash from right behind her — turned, panicked, to see the low tide lapping lazily at the shore as it had been for the whole time they’d been walking. Turning back, she found the mouth was still moving, but the sound of the waves persisted. She shook her head.

Each deafening crash of the waves that seemed to be smashing into her ears — the sound wasn’t real. She had to remember that. Dr Jackson had said to take deep breathes when this happened; Dusty’s lungs no longer worked. She’d started to carry a different solution in her back pocket. As Krystal kept talking, smiling, not looking at Dusty, she slid the pocketknife out of her jeans. A quick jab through her palm did the trick. She felt a small spike of pain, like a hard pinch, and the waves began to recede. Light she hadn’t realized had dimmed began to edge back into the world. 

“Dusty?” Krystal said. She was standing uncomfortably close. Dusty took a step back. 

“I think I’m banned there for life,” she said, trying to recover, trying to keep her wobbly knees unnoticed. 

Krystal giggled. “What did you do? Throw someone through one of the air hockey tables?” 

“Uhhh...”

“Wait, seriously?” Krystal stared at Dusty, which meant she was more likely now to notice the wobbling. 

“No, I didn’t. . .” Dusty stabbed her hand again behind her back — ring finger went limp from severing the metacarpal bone (she’d googled the parts she abused) “. . .exactly do anything wrong. I’m just sorta culpable for some property damage, maybe.” She shook her head. “Look, let’s just go back to my place.”

Krystal cocked her head. “We gonna play games there or something?”

“No games!” Dusty said, loud enough to instantly regret it. “I-I, uh, don’t have any, sorry,” she spoke, stupidly, knowing they smoked pot over her Xbox two hours ago. Krystal was looking at her funny now. She’d fucked it up and flipped the world over: now she wasn’t drifting away, but crushed under everything around her. The presence of Mr Smiley, the arcade’s owner, suddenly became apparent to her; over Krystal’s shoulder, he stood some dozen yards away, a broom clutched in both hands. What she thought was suspicion turned out to be harmless curiosity, and the man’s eyes soon drifted back to his own tiny orbit. That’s right. He wouldn’t recognize her now, would he? 

Dusty looked back into the face of the person who thought recognized her, though that belief may have been wavering. Had she ruined it yet? 

Krystal composed herself, hiding concern with smiles and jokes, and they walked again. 

And the low tide crept inches further along the sand. 

* * *

Krystal asked Dusty the next day why she can’t touch her, prefacing the question with an “it’s alright if you don’t want to say”. It was very comfortingly said, and didn’t stop Dusty at all from picturing a gun in her face with a politely added apology. Her reply — she didn’t want to be disappointed so soon — was not the polite answer. 

The other woman took it like a slap. She was stunned for a moment, but scooted back on the couch an inch before Dusty realized how she’d taken it. She shook her head, about to clarify, but froze. Clarify what? What could she bring herself to reveal? 

“Do you want to ride my back like a horse while I jump around a lot?” said Dusty, instead. 

Krystal did. 

Dusty jumped low but far. This seemed to impress the screeching Krystal. Dusty wore gloves and told herself that the weightlessness she felt on her shoulders was from her strength. They made it to the woods beyond the city before she jumped a little too far and tore the bone from her leg, ripping her jeans. It took the bone sliding back into her shin of its own accord to stop Krystal’s screaming. She watched Dusty beat her heel against the grass until feeling returned enough to walk back. 

“So, you’ve got, like, superpowers?” The question was asked with a surprising tone of chill from someone who was hysterical a minute before. Dusty gave her an odd look. 

“We met when I swung a man twice my size over my head and through a table.”

Krystal paused, thinking. Dusty waited for her. She titled her head, then shrugged. “I just thought you did CrossFit.”

Dusty tried not to choke on her spit. It was sudden laughter, like a wheeze. “Wow, you’re fucking dumb,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. 

“Heeeey.” 

It was while crossing under the water tower that Krystal asked if she had any other weird powers. “Could you list them or something?”

“For what? You gonna make a wiki?”

“I almost puked when I saw your fucking bone poking out. I think you owe me this,” Krystal said. 

Dusty sighed. “Okay, there’s the strength thing. Then, there’s—“

“How strong are you?” Krystal asked, cutting her off. 

“Is there a universal scale or something? I don’t know. Ripped, I guess.”

“Have you ever tried to pick up a car?” 

“Actually, yes.” Dusty was embarrassed to admit she more or less did a superhero power-testing montage. 

“And? Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Siiiick! Oh, that’s so fucking cool. You’re the coolest person ever. Okay, okay, sorry! You were saying? Super strength, and?” 

Dusty rolled her eyes. “Well, you saw the regeneration.”

“Dope ass Wolverine shit. Dig it. Very gross, though.” 

“Yeah, it’s a little slower, but—“

“You could have warned me,” Krystal interrupted again, glaring at Dusty, who decided to ignore her. 

“I can also shoot destructive blasts from my hands, feet, and mouth.” She never did the feet one, though, cause who wanted to be bare-foot that often? Perverts, probably. Also, didn’t seem to do the mouth one either; the hand one always seemed cooler. Dusty wondered if she had watched too much Dragon Ball Z. Krystal was staring at her, mouth agape. 

“What the fuuuck?! That’s not fair! You have way too many. OP! Please nerf!” 

“That one has a cooldown, though,” she clarified. 

“Oh,” Krystal said, and smiled, “Good! I’m glad your powers are balanced.” 

Rolled eyes again. “Yeah, thank fuck for that.”

There was a pause, before Krystal raised her eyebrows. “You were saying?”

“Ugh. Right. I can, kind of, scream portals into existence.” It felt weird to put it that way. All this sounded really vague and dumb. Krystal had stopped walking and was staring again. 

She groaned. “Forget what I just said about balanced. Dammit, I’ve wanted to teleport since I learned about Nightcrawler!” 

“I can’t control it, really. I don’t know what causes it. It’s not just screaming,” Dusty said. What else was there? She didn’t really think of all of them as “super”, most were just inconvenient. “I don’t need to eat food — can’t, actually. At least, not solid food: it always comes back up. I’ve been surviving off of A1 steak sauce for the past few months.” 

“Gross.”

“My hair is technically a portal, but only one person can use it.” That was a weird one to remember. 

“What?! So, I could crawl through your hair?” Krystal had stars in her eyes. When Dusty shook her head, they blinked out. 

“Nah, I didn’t mean one person can use it at a time; I mean, only one specific person can. And I told him if he ever did, I’d break whichever part poked through first.” 

“Who?” Krystal asked. 

“Steven Universe.” 

“That sounds like a fake name.” 

“It sure does.” 

They diverted after the water tower, heading for the nearest bit of flat pavement to Dusty’s house, where Krystal had parked. By then, the sun was dozing behind the large, statue-fucked cliff on the other side of town. Dusty watched the orange light shrink across the cars’ windshields, the cloud range draping the ocean bleed pink. 

“I’m kind of immortal,” she said. She didn’t check to see if Krystal was gaping at her again, instead she walked until the sound of two feet hitting the sandy grass doubled again. 

“So, like, you’re never gonna die?” she heard the other woman ask. They kept walking until they reached Krystal’s car: a beat-up yellow Civic. Just as the light died on the glass, Dusty pulled off her sunglasses. The lingering daylight only stung. 

“No, I died,” she said. “I’m just rotting slowly.” 

Krystal wordlessly ducked into the driver seat of her car. She stared at Dusty through the open window, contemplative. She seemed to study her eyes, and Dusty fled her gaze. This seemed to only push the woman to her decision faster, as suddenly she was asking: “Do you want to come to Charm City with me?” 

“What?” This wasn’t what Dusty was expecting. 

“I’m staying at this one room studio shithole downtown, but if you came up with me, I’d have an excuse to splurge on the actual hotel up the road.” It was a neutral statement, no implications, no strings. It was the only way anyone could ever successfully ask Dusty “Do you want to be with me?” She still didn’t meet Krystal’s eyes, just watched the rainbow glistening of spilled gas on the pavement. Dusty shrugged, eventually. 

“Sure, whatever.” 

* * *

Unlike Beach City — essentially an expansive open-air knick knack shop —Charm City was a city, in name and form. This meant it was too familiar. Krystal’s phone had said there was a traffic jam on her normal route into the city, so they took a detour that led straight through a neighborhood. Beach City tended to have well-paved roads and solid, clean driveways. Dusty watched them pass gravel driveway after gravel driveway while dodging potholes, and avoiding pedestrians zigzagging and hopping around desecrated sidewalks; what she felt wasn’t nostalgia, but more akin to how a child feels returning to the doctor after getting a tooth drilled. She felt apprehension and sickness. Krystal was also badly singing to folk punk (implying one can sing well to folk punk), which in that moment was like pouring bleach on an open wound. 

Thankfully, the one story paint-peeled houses were soon transplanted by pleasing, shitty old brick buildings and horrendous, clean modern businesses. Also, thankfully, Krystal’s stereo broke. It certainly had nothing to do with Dusty’s heart beating and her placing her palm over the CD slit. The shaking was definitely one of the potholes they’d left six streets back. Damn crumbling infrastructure. 

Maybe it was the lack of folk music that made their arrival to the hotel so much sooner, or maybe they’d just been close to begin with before the stereo broke; Dusty knew which theory she preferred. Krystal pulled the Civic into a particularly cramped spot between a minivan and a pickup stretched across two spaces (proud of herself, she demanded a high five; remembering, she apologized and then high-fived herself). The outside was unimpressive and still the height of a whole street of Beach City stacked on top of itself, with a name that Dusty forgot as soon as her eyes left the sign. All she could remember was that it was not a Red Roof Inn, since the roof was yellow. 

Similarly, the lobby wasn’t anything to write home about, with a breakfast dining area and pool section (respectively) visible from the front desk. Krystal got nostalgic, claimed this kind of place (a shithole, Dusty had decided) reminded her of family vacations. She looked to Dusty expectantly when she related this to her, an invitation to delight with all of her lovable childhood memories. Dusty asked the concierge if there was a bar. 

There wasn’t. 

Most of the hotel was empty. This didn’t stop Krystal from making “what if there’s only ooooone beeeed?” jokes half a dozen times on the way up the stairs. Dusty had refused to take the elevator. The other woman just nodded when she’d said that, like she was adding it up in the mental list of “How Bad A Girlfriend Dusty Is” which still seemed rather optimistic — “girlfriend” was pushing it. Anyway, she thought it was rather unfair, since she had never been claustrophobic before. She didn’t even think she was until the moment the elevator Krystal called dinged and opened, and she just stared at the empty box she was now obligated to walk into. A coffin on a pulley. Due to all of this, Dusty felt Krystal was owed the many awful jokes she made as they slowly ascended the fluorescent-lit backbone of the Not-Red Roof Inn. 

The room had two beds. Dusty knew this going in since at the front desk that’s what they had asked for. Krystal mocked surprise and very fake relief that masked also fake disappointment; Dusty just threw her duffel bag — pre-packed, still — onto the bed, stuffed with clothes and A1 bottles and one very folded piece of paper. 

“Aw, you’re picking the one by the door?” Krystal said. 

Dusty shrugged. She hadn’t given it any thought. In hindsight, the other bed was closer to the window, and thus closer to the inevitable sunlight, but the curtains seemed relatively impenetrable. This bed had just been closest. “Why?” she said. “You want it?”

Krystal smiled and shook her head. “No, I’m touched is all. You’re putting yourself in the ‘First Killed By the Axe Murderer’ bed, for my sake.” 

“I’ll make sure to scream nice and loud as he’s disemboweling me, for your sake.” 

“I knew this trip would bring us closer.” She winked, kicking off both shoes and diving into her bed. Giving the mattress the customary (according to her) double bounce seemed to disappoint Krystal, who probably wouldn’t have been satisfied with anything less than a goddamn water bed. Rolling over onto her stomach, feet kicking the air behind her, Krystal regarded Dusty again. “Although, you are immortal,” she mused. 

“Yeah, kind of ruins the martyrdom aspect,” Dusty said. “Wanna switch beds? I’m sure your death screams will be much more meaningful.” 

———————————————————

“— so he reaches in the trash bag, pulls the rotten peach I just threw out, and takes a massive, juicy bite out of it.”

“No...” 

“He did! He ate the whole thing in front of me, and then scoured the fridge for any other bruised or gross looking produce. He ate them all.” 

Dusty shuddered. “I hate straight men! Holy fuck! What is wrong with them?!” 

“Same with—“ Krystal shot vodka out her nose; she shook her head, alcohol and snot sprinkling on her bed sheets. “Same with the thermostat! He hated wasting a cent. I used to freeze during the winter.” 

“And yet...” Dusty said, knowing there had to be a catch. There always was with the hetties. 

“And yet,” Krystal began, with appropriate dramatic pause — a bow and flourish of the wrist, “he drove a hummer.” 

More laughter. More snotty vodka. Dusty grabbed the bottle from Krystal before she spilled it all over the bed; she brought it to her own lips. She’d drunk most of the bottle herself. Krystal was apparently a lightweight, and Dusty barely felt a buzz. She focused on the blue kiss stain on the lip of the glass, and tried not to think about the weakening affect of alcohol against her body. She gulped twice and remembered when this used to burn. 

They’d exhausted Dusty’s hastily-packed supply of just-barely-legally alcoholic Four Lokos hours ago; and though the shitty hotel didn’t have a bar, there was a gas station down the street. Dusty had asked what Krystal liked, taken a wad of cash, and jumped out the window when no one was within sight to scream at her splattered, temporarily immobile corpse. Krystal had found this ghastly until she was drunk and found it hilarious. 

And she was certainly drunk when she said — after the two burnless gulps — “What happened earlier by the arcade... it’s okay. You don’t gotta say. I just want you to know I’m here for you. I want to help.” She hiccuped. 

If there had been a buzz starting to take off, it’d just been squashed with a fly swatter. Dusty looked toward Krystal, the shrinking image of her — as if the other woman had just taken a knife and carved out the space between them in that moment, and scarred it for every moment to come. They spent minutes in silence: Krystal patiently trying not to fall asleep, Dusty staring past her. Then, she spoke: 

“Try touching me.” She held out a hand: small like her mother’s — that’s where all comparison ended. Krystal’s bleary eyes startled at this. She insisted on eye contact; Dusty obliged by watching the bent eyelash in the upper corner of the other woman’s left eye. She nodded reverently at the invitation. The trust, the fucking vulnerability she thought she was being granted. 

Krystal first presented her hand (wow, a hand) and took things very slow. Patiently. Helpingly. Each of her fingernails was painted now to look like strawberries, with dual minuscule ceramic slivers of leaf swinging from tiny chains, glued to her thumbnails. Unlike Dusty’s lineage, her fingers were boney and long; her hands were bumpy with prominent veins like hills in the desert. She never swept her hands away in her pockets, like Dusty once did — she’d seen her shield her neck against coastal winds, so she imagined Krystal’s hand were warm. Nothing about her suggested craftsmanship of the sort that planted calluses, so they were likely soft, too. She often wiped them on her pant legs, so maybe her palms got sweaty. 

Dusty would never know. She held Krystal’s hand and felt absolutely nothing. Solid air between her fingers. A pocket of space that lightly repelled her grasp like a magnet. She met Krystal’s pupils again, finally. Krystal was smiling. 

“I don’t want to see you any more,” Dusty said. Krystal seemed ready for this; she didn’t seem phased when she asked, “why?” 

“We shouldn’t be together.” 

There wasn’t another why. The person on the bed in front of her propped herself up to a full sitting position, still holding her hand, instead. She looked to Dusty, not smiling but not frowning either. She reached out with her free hand. 

Dusty was stung by the numb of her cheek — nothingness that burned her skin deep. She could only tell Krystal was now caressing her face by the visible motion of her wrist moving up, then down. Krystal smiled gently at her again, and Dusty knew she couldn’t tell her. She retreated back on her bed. 

“You know what you said to me? How I was the ‘coolest person ever’?” 

“Yes.”

“Maybe I just find you too boring.” 

Dusty looked away before she could see Krystal’s eyes; kept hers on a spot in the corner of the room. She didn’t blink or breathe, hoping it’d be easier to abandon a statue than a person. It still took too long. She heard the rapid sounds of clothing stuffed against clothing, the zipping of a bag. After that there was a long pause, but Dusty didn’t look up. Eventually, the human left. 

The slamming of the door sounded like the drop of a pillow, and Dusty knew then that the ocean had followed her: the waves curb-stomped her eardrums. She slid the knife out and stabbed herself eleven times through the palm. Funnily enough, the resulting mess looked kinda like the kanji for “courage”. Dusty laughed, then puked onto the bed; which was weird, cause she wasn’t even drunk. She still felt sick after this. Stumbling into the bathroom alarmingly was something she hadn’t done for a while, so the feeling felt almost nostalgic. Was this how most people felt when they stayed at shitty hotels? The sound of the water was still there. Was she wearing a fishbowl on her head? She checked in the mirror: nope. 

Dusty started sawing her thumb off over the sink. She stopped halfway through bone and no closer to a dryer brain. She needed something to hurt — truly, truly, distractingly hurt. A drop from the shower head hit the metal drain. Plunk. She looked at it. Shrugging, she stepped into the bath, faced the vase-shaped shower head, and turned the handle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astonishingly, this intimate relationship with Dusty did not last very long. 
> 
> Things are seriously about to happen I swear. In the meantime, next chapter is a flashback! The illusion of progress.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_74TLzwyM0


	26. Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for implied/referenced child abuse, and just a parent being awful.

[just so you know, I never needed your help] 

[Uh huh.]

[im a fucking PERSON not a broken vase you can piece together]

[How’d you even get my number?]

[internet. you haev a fucking LinkedIn?]

[Shut up. Whose phone are you even using?]

[some girls]

[I’m sure using her phone to drunkenly rant at your ex is quite the turn-on.]

[maybe it is, first of all. second of all, we’re going to Charm City together tonight and it’s gonna be lit. And THIRD OF ALL, im not fucking drunk, so]

[Remarkable. Bye.]

[wait I actually texted cause i wanted to know some thing]

[What?]

[...]

[. . .]

[...]

[. . .]

[...]

[. . .]

[did you take my shulk amiibo?]

[No. Leave me alone.]

* * *

Olivia watched the passing street lamps from the backseat, squeezing her eyes tight before each one disappeared behind her window. Beneath her eyelids she watched fuzzy green dots slowly sift and fade, and above them she saw the lights intermingle with floaters. She hoped she could create another excuse for the stinging in her eyes by polluting them with brightness. The car passed through a tunnel, and she pressed thumbs into her sockets to brand the lingering light there a bit longer. When they were back in the open road, her thumbs came off wet, slick and salty; she wiped them off onto her skirt. 

The hospital blowpop in her mouth had long since turned to a flavorless, saliva-softened stick, thats gray gum had fused inseparably with the paper. She ran the remaining hard edge along her upper teeth with her tongue, hearing light clacking as it rolled from canine to molar. Nothing was louder than Dad, though. He was complaining about Aunt Yui again. He’d begun the argument with her in the hallway, far enough down that Olivia couldn’t hear anything but the tone: it was angry. She had been more focused on the nurses rolling the bed out of Mom’s room; focused on the thin blanket covering a human-shaped lump. She hadn’t been crying, and was grateful Dad was far enough down the hall that he couldn’t see that. He always got mad whenever she did or didn’t cry, since last April when she hadn’t shed a single tear at grandma’s funeral. It’s not that she wasn’t sad; Olivia didn’t know why she didn’t cry. She’d considered licking her hands and smearing them around her cheeks, so when he got done sort-of yelling at Auntie, he wouldn’t really yell at her. But, for some reason, the solemn silence that cut off any discussion between the two furious adults down the hall, as the bed with the lump drifted between them, hurt Olivia especially, and the tears began to flow. 

It was strange — crying. Olivia didn’t know when was best to do so, but had decided from the looks on Dad’s face, his words, that whenever she did or didn’t do it was probably the time it shouldn’t or should be happening. So, when she cried, she hid it, and when she didn’t cry, she faked that she had. 

Dad yelled while he drove, “To fucking Japan?! What the fuck does she think that is for a compromise? Great, burn her here and have the service on the other side of the planet. Of course. How practical. Isn’t that right, Ollie?” His eyes were on her through the rearview mirror. She froze, scared he could see the wet glistening on her face. His eyes were blue: to Olivia they always looked like twin bruises on his face that blinked. But his expression didn’t change: he was mad, just not in the way he was with her — no squinting of the eyes or locking of the jaw. 

“R-Right,” she said. His eyes slid back to the road. The moment passed. 

“And what am I supposed to do with you? Take you out of school for the week? Near the end of the semester? You barely hold on as it is, and I said that. I told that damn. . . I told your _aunt_ that you’re not the kind of kid who can miss class. You barely hold on as it is, I said.” She froze again at the mention of school, which had been a sore spot the last. . . years. 

“Of course, she got freakin’ pissed at that. Looked as if I told her _she_ was slow. Had to clarify I wasn’t even saying you’re retarded. You’re not. Dyslexic and stuttery, but not retarded. Besides, if you were — and I’m being hypothetical here — whose side of the family did _that_ come from?” 

“What’s that m-mean again?” Olivia asked. She always forgot the weird-sounding ones. 

“Retarded?” 

“Dilexic.”

“_Dys_lexic. Means you can’t read,” Dad said. 

“I _can_ read. The b-books now are just too hard.” Olivia could read. Wasn’t her fault Tom Sawyer was boring and filled with weird words. 

“That’s what not being able to read means. You’re below everyone else your grade.” Dad said it in the tone he used when he meant a discussion was over. She hated when he brought up her grades, but was relieved he was finished.

But he wasn’t. 

“By the way, you know the school calls me about everything, right? Report cards and shit, if I don’t sign off on certain things you hide under your fucking bed?” Olivia stiffened as he kept talking. “For fuck’s sake, did you really think drawing a _line_ on the F’s would make convincing A’s? Just because _you_ can’t tell the difference between letters don’t mean I can’t.” His eyes were on her again in the mirror; she had wanted to squirm over to the side of the seat with more shadows, but it was too late. 

A moment passed. And another. His eyes softened. He murmured, “Right. Not tonight.” 

The rest of the ride was quiet and thankfully short. Dad pulled into the gravel driveway. They’d left the house in the morning and hadn’t thought to turn the lights on, so the house and yard were pitch dark, like an oil spill from the light-polluted, starless sky. Dad hesitated after cutting off the engine. Olivia heard the soft click of the car door handle, but the driver’s side remained shut. There was a stillness that terrified her, as if Dad was about to start talking again, angry. There was often a stillness like that, while he contemplated what to say at her. He didn’t say anything. Until the door started to finally open, there was no sound beside the choir of crickets which lived among their weedy yard. When the door did open, it was nudged slowly with both his hands, as if there was suddenly some greater weight to the rusty Cadillac than Olivia could see. Whenever the doors opened slow like that, there was an awful, high pitched squeaking. It made her want to tear at her ears; she settled for digging her nails into her thighs. Luckily, it was halfway through that Dad seemed to have pried the door free from the imaginary boulder that stuck it in place, and swung it open before climbing outside. 

Dad stomped to the house, his head aimed firmly at the front screen door. Though, there was just as little to see of their property in the dark as there was in the day, he seemed to shun the sight of any of it; he even stumbled over the crooked first step. Olivia followed behind, distant. When he reached the screen door, Dad repeated the same ritual as with the car, then again with the wood door. She remembered the way Mom’s hands shook carrying groceries months back. A fear took hold that the withering, creeping thing which killed Mom had somehow snuck onto Dad as it passed him in the hall, riding the lump that used to have self-cut, uneven bangs and hairless arms. The lump that used to sing. 

But Dad didn’t shake. He opened the second door and waved Olivia in. She weighed the worry in her mind. She cycled through possible reactions, rehearsing sentences — what facial expression she’d use, what tone of voice, the distance from him which she’d speak — calculating risk. It could be nothing: Dad did things that didn’t make sense a lot. It could also be the build-up to something bad: sometimes the senseless things precluded outbursts. Olivia settled on a question, wreathed in concern. “W-What’s wrong?” she asked with a frown, wide eyes; soft voice, just above a whisper; eight feet away, by the stairs. 

He stiffened — a breath later so did she — then deflated. Dad spoke in a tired voice, “She’s never coming home.” He turned and she could see the hall light cradle in his misty eyes. He was crying, with the appropriate timing. Olivia was caught with a dry face, but he only looked from her eyes to the stairs. “Come on, you’re not going to bed yet.” 

“B-But it’s bed t-time,” she said, stupidly. It sounded pleading; her eyes weren’t wide, they were shifting. She was still eight feet away, though. Dad’s eyes narrowed, and that was it: Olivia walked with him to the kitchen. They moved to sit at their usual places: her along the long end of the table, him at its edge. Though, before sitting, he pulled her chair closer to his. She sat, waiting neutrally as she could manage, while he rummaged through the cabinets above the countertop. She held steady through the banging. Dad’s impact on the space around him always seemed to be loud. He returned with a bottle of brown liquid, and it’d be a familiar sight if he’d been carrying just one shot glass. 

He carried two. 

“When my uncle died,” he said, pulling his seat out and almost falling into it, “my father took out his best bottle of whiskey, and the two of us shared a drink. To his memory. I know you never knew your grandpa, but he was a good man. Solid in the ways that count. He was more firm with his belt than I’ve been with you, but that was your mother’s touch. Can’t say I can fully measure up to him, but I’ll be damned if I don’t continue the family tradition.” He filled “her” cup then. But it wasn’t how it looked when he drank, just a little on the bottom. Tonight, Dad filled it to the brim. 

“I d-d-don’t w-w—“ 

“You what? C’mon, actually say it.”

“I d-d—“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Olivia! Are you saying those months of speech classes — _expensive_ speech classes — were for jack shit? Did tonight set you back, is that it? Every time life throws a stone at you, you’re gonna huddle on the ground?”

Olivia didn’t open her mouth, just shook her head. 

“All the more reason. Pick up your glass, it’ll calm your nerves.”

She stared at the drink, rocking slightly back and forth in her chair. 

“This isn’t gonna be like your homework, or your science fair project, or learning Japanese. You’re gonna have to actually finish this.” Olivia wanted to yell at him, scream that he was the one who got paranoid every time Mom and she spoke Japanese; but his eyes had been narrowed, now his jaw was tightening. He had a hand wrapped around the edge of the table and was clenching til the wood squealed. She imagined it was her arm; she remembered it being her arm. 

Olivia leaned forward and sipped the edge of the glass, so she could pick it up without spilling. After just a sip she tore her head back and began to cough. It burned. Coughing just pushed it into her nose. 

“Don’t breathe it in!” Dad yelled, though the table wasn’t squealing anymore, and his jaw was loosening. He leaned back in his chair, comfortably seizing his shot up and bringing it to his lips; he began instructing her. “Now, pick yours up. Don’t lean over for it — you’re not trying to get fucked in the ass. Your hands don’t stutter too, right? So trust them. Good. Now, smell it first, get a good whiff. Then, you’re gonna want to sip. Don’t piss yourself when it feels prickly. Hey! Don’t swallow so fast — this is good stuff, so you’re gonna hold it in your mouth and taste it.” 

Three glasses later and Olivia felt warm and loose. Dad’s talking. Been talking. What’s he saying? 

“—don’t wanna hear that kinda shit from school, anymore. Got it?” Olivia nods, staying mute to keep from stuttering and making him mad again. “I didn’t raise a fucking bully. If a kid fucks with you, that’s different. But why am I hearing stories about you beating up smaller kids? Your teacher told me you flushed a kid’s inhaler down the drain. Their fucking inhaler! People need that shit to breath, Olivia. Know how much one of those costs? Whose gonna have to foot that bill?” 

“Me?” she replied blearily. 

“No, dummy, me. You should hit the books, not Mikey from the Goonies, alright?” 

Olivia’s attention faded out into the dark swirls on the table by her glass. Two more shots and she felt her stomach shooting back up. She fell out of her chair, and there’s maybe yelling, but it’s hard to tell. She just heard the sloshing climbing up her chest. Olivia didn’t want to make Dad mad like she did when she spilled juice on the floor. She didn’t even mean to open her mouth — a rope from her gut pried it open. What happened next burned, ached, and stung. She could feel the wet on her hands and knees. She could feel the raw flesh of her throat quivering from their wounds. She could feel the hand clapping her back, but she couldn’t tell if she was being punished or congratulated. The big hand hurt all the same. 

Olivia woke up the next morning on the living room couch, wondering if at some point in the night Dad had picked her up by the ankles and slammed her head into the wall. Her brain throbbed in tune with her heart. She was wearing one of his coats as a blanket, though her chest felt cold. She checked: her shirt was wet except where it was crusty. Above her feverishly warm chest, the cold puke-covered shirt, and the leather coat, there was a piece of paper. Well, more a napkin scribbled on in red ink. It read:

“Back in few days. Need money to pay for cremation. Poptarts in the cabinet by the phone. And cereal. Clean kitchen floor.” 

And for the next two weeks, Olivia was alone. 

* * *

The water had felt like machine gun fire. Dusty screamed and thrashed and hit everything. She could feel it again: the crack of her teeth, the wet on her neck. She could smell blood in the air. Dusty felt her body slide from a dry everything to a wet abyss, passing through the thin wavering surface from one world to the next. She’d passed from air to water, dry to wet, warm to cold, life to death. She staggered out from the tub to see a glowing oval in the bathroom’s center. 

She stared at it. 

_Passing through… _

“So, that’s how this dumb shit works.”

She left the cratered, bloody bathroom, grabbed her stuff, and staggered down the many, many stairs. 

It was the same concierge at the front desk, which was awful and stupid and predictable. He looked Dusty up and down and did a little knowing smirk, like “Ah yes, leaving alone, are you?” She never so consciously felt how easily she could kill someone before. 

“Didn’t go as planned?” he actually fucking said, out loud. For real. Her heart beat. She was very conscious of the pull. 

“If property is destroyed and a guest doesn’t pay for it, does it come out of your salary personally?” Dusty asked. 

The raised eyebrows scrunched from smugness to confusion. “No?” he said. “The hotel just bills the person’s contact info. Or sues. Why?”

“Shit. I destroyed the bathroom. Here’s three hundred dollars cash. You lost my info.” Dusty tossed a fat wad of twenties on the desk and left. There was only artificial light outside. She walked past a couple photographing a slow-drying blood splat on the sidewalk. Her phone was nearly dead when she called Steven. It was way past midnight, so surprising when he actually picked up. 

“Uh, hey, Dusty. I didn’t know you kept my number.”

“People keep telling me that.” 

“That’s a weird thing to— Nevermind. What’s up!” He sounded very fake happy to hear from her. 

“Why are you awake anyway, baby boy?” 

She could actually hear frustration when he said, “I’m not a baby. I was at a party, actually. It just ended.”

“Was this an alcohol party?”

“Um...”

“Mhm.”

“I’m sure somebody was drinking! Just not me, cause, you know. Illegal.” 

“Pfft.”

“Oh, right. Like you drank when you were sixteen.”

“Steven...”

“Oh jeez... Um, anyway, it was a graduation, so not the best place for alcohol.”

“You don’t know anything about graduation, parties, or alcohol, do you? Nevermind. I just have something to give you — tonight. You’ll be at your place?”

“Um, to sleep, yes. Can’t it wait for the morning?”

“I don’t even know what that word means. If I don’t do this tonight, I’m never gonna do it.”

The line was quiet for a while. She could just hear Steven’s breathing. She wondered what he heard on his end. Finally he spoke. “Are you leaving too?” Which was unexpected. 

“No? I just need to give you something. A piece of paper.”

“Oh, okay. Good...” His voice didn’t even partially hide obvious relief. “If it’s just that, I’m almost home and Lion’s there, so... Can I?” 

Dusty groaned. She wished she was just at her place. She could run. Or jump. Or... There was that new option now. She didn’t feel up for it though. “Fine,” she said, “long as you don’t take this rare compromise as full-on permission. Our rule still stands.” 

“Your rule. The violent one. Okay, one sec.” There was a brief period of shuffling across sand, then nothing, then flip-flops hitting wood. Soon, Dusty felt her head tingle and her hair began to glow. She unzipped her bag, grabbed the paper, and carefully slid it into the waiting hand. Creepy as hell. Thankfully, it went back soon as she delivered it. Steven spoke up again. “What do you want me to do with this? Read it?”

“Can you read gemmish?” 

There was another pause, then: “Technically, it’s called gemglyph.” 

“So no.”

“Ah, no. But I know people who can! Uh, obviously.”

“Yeah, so give it to them, and then have them... uh, do the thing with it.”

“Dusty, what is it?”

She watched a homeless person on the other side of the road lean into the wall of a bank for support, clinging to a blanket and shivering. She regretted giving hundreds of dollars to a douchebag. “Coordinates,” she said. “Send someone to them. Or whatever. And no, against my better judgement, I’m not leaving. Tell her I’ll be waiting.”

“Uh, tell who?“ 

Dusty hung up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was a shorter chapter than the last few. That's because the next chapter, which I guess I would call the "pivotal" chapter of this part, is almost twice as long as the longest chapter I've written.
> 
> And it's coming out October 10th.


	27. Plunge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.

Here the stench of the ocean was overwhelming: thick salty air wafted up from the shore, spreading scents of rotten kelp, fishy brine, and other aquatic waste. She stepped off the bus, hit the pungent wall and considered turning back. There was plenty to do in Charm City, after all. She didn’t have to be in Beach City for what came next. She turned around, but the bus was already gone. 

Dusty sighed, already sick of this shit. She walked through a town she’d been in hours earlier, yet already felt strange. Familiar in a surreal way, like returning home after a long vacation — Krystal said that’s how it was, at least. It was Dawn: Beach City seemed in her mind only familiar as a ghost painted in hues of orange and red. That’s how she’d left it, and how she’d found it again; though now there was the blue tint to the air that precluded the sun, so it was definitely worse than before. From the bus stop she couldn’t see her house, but noticed the alien statue’s massive arm poking out from behind the lighthouse cliff. How could anyone be dumb enough to mistake the her house for that shit?

Moving downhill, she cut through a crop of waist-high grass and weeds that once itched. Closest was The Fin, which was fine with her. She assumed a stiff drink or eleven might help ease the trek back home. It’d been a hot minute since she’d been there last — there was the shifting decor and visibly shriveling will of the owner to look forward to. Dusty reached the front door when she saw Liz’s car, parked badly between a truck and a yellow Beetle. She could see the hair spray in the backseat from there. She swore under her breath and stepped away from the door. This night just got better and better to be sober in. 

As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one having a shitty time. Dusty heard the gem before she saw her — a nasally voice sputtering fake cuss words and sprinkling in a few real ones. She turned the corner and saw a green, one-eyed gem kicking a crumpled metal trash can. She’d kicked it quite a lot. 

Not that she gave a shit or anything, but, “You good?” Dusty asked. The alien practically jumped out of her skin (?), looking at Dusty like she was a crashed meteor and not someone who lived here. The shock shifted to confusion, paused, then settled on contempt. The green gem swatted a hand at Dusty. 

“I don’t have time for organics,” she said. Dusty was about to inform the entire alley that she, in fact, did not have the time for trash-murdering space cyclopses, but her phone started to ring. She held up a finger to tell the gem to wait — which finger she held up, Dusty couldn’t be sure. She was a dumbass organic, after all. 

Steven’s voice sounded groggy when he said, “It’s a garden, right?” She breathed in. 

“Yes,” she said, then, “Is it done?”

“Uh, no? I asked Lars to check on it. He was. . . heading out anyway.” He let out a loud yawn. Dusty felt a flash of guilt for ruining the baby’s sleep schedule. 

“Thanks. Can you tell Lars to text me an update when he can? You should head to bed, I guess.”

“Right,” Steven said, then another yawn. “Goodnight, Dusty.”

She squinted to the sunrise. “Good morning, Steve.” He snickered and hung up. She pocketed her phone, then glanced back at the gem who was now staring at her. It wasn’t chill to be stared at by one giant, unblinking eye. “Dude, what? Didn’t you not have time for ‘organics’ or whatever?” 

The gem licked her lips before speaking, which was dumb since she didn’t even have skin (yes? right?). “You... You’re Dusty?” Her voice came out cracked. 

Okay, that’s some good hearing. “Uh, yeah? Why?” 

She looked hesitantly to the bar, then back to Dusty. The one big eye closed, and the alien tapped her foot hard, rapidly. She seemed panickingly indecisive about… something. She stopped after about twenty taps, and a few incomprehensible mutterings, opened her eye and looked toward Dusty with resolve. 

“You have to run,” she said next. 

“I have to... What?” 

“Do your squishy audio receptors not work, or something? You need to leave, this second.” 

“I kinda need to stay in Beach City for something.” 

“Beach City..? No, no! I mean the planet. Galaxy, preferably.” 

“Are you high?” Dusty asked. “Can gems get high? Do you guys have, like, rock weed?” And then, “Does it work on anyone?” 

“I’m not high, you asshole! You’re in danger. Bad! Scary! Uhhh… Animal noises!” The cyclops started waving her hands and stomping. “What do I need to say to trigger your squishy mind’s survival instinct?” 

“If I started walking away from you, quickly, will that be enough? Will you shut up?” She was getting annoyed now. Evidently, so was the green gem, who groaned. 

“Fine! Whatever! This is what I get for trying to do something good.” 

Dusty turned away and began to walk quickly, as agreed, but she was stopped again by the gem saying something else. 

“Be careful,” she said quietly. Dusty gave her another glance. The gem turned around and began to hurry down the alley, before stopping, and adding in a hushed, shaken voice, “She. . . She _hates_ you.” 

Dusty kept her promise, and hurried away. Now she was fucking paranoid. She jogged through a mist of salty, putrid, rotten air and told herself she was delusional. There was no way. What were the chances? No chance. Zero. Zilch. She glanced over to the waves as she shifted from boardwalk to beach. Then again, what had been the chances, cosmically, of her being stuck in this situation in the first place? Out of everyone on Earth, everyone in Beach City even. But, she couldn’t be that unlucky twice, right? 

Right?

Her phone buzzed. It may have been buzzing all along, she couldn’t tell. Dusty hesitantly pulled it out of her pocket and checked the lock screen. She had three separate texts from three separate numbers. The first was from Lars.

[what am I looking for exactly? This place is empty] — bubblegum boy 

The next was from an unknown number, though it looked vaguely familiar. 

[I wouldn’t be messaging you about this if you hadn’t texted me, making your shit my business again. Guess who just ran into me. She was asking about you and seemed really upset. I honestly don’t know why I thought you’d do things differently this time. You can’t keep—] Dusty deleted the conversation. She bit her lip, hard, and hoped the last message would be something good. She looked. It was from Steven. 

[btw you left your shulk amiibo at my house :3] — tolerable nerd

“Huh,” Dusty said. So it wasn’t all bad. 

Something hit her hard from behind, crashing into her back and knocking her face first into the sand. Something tight — two somethings — clawed around her waist and over and over and over her torso. Something squeezed her tight enough to force all the complimentary air from her lungs. Something pressed weight onto her back. Something breathed hot air onto her neck. And Dusty could feel it all. She struggled to move, but her limbs had been almost immediately restrained — several times over, as she could only just make her arms budge. She used the only available muscle she could operate.

“Hey, bestie,” she said. 

The breathing momentarily stopped, as if there was some deliberation for what to say next. 

“_Fuck you_,” is what Spinel settled on. 

“Ah, I see you’re mad.” Dusty’s face was shoved deeper into the sand. Ew, her fucking mouth was open; even numb to it, she shuddered at the thought of sand against her teeth. She tried to spit it out, but her head was held firmly in place. 

The voice on her neck seethed spite. “‘Mad’ doesn’t really cover it.” A pause. Then, she hissed, “_Bestie_.” 

“Sho,” Dusty muttered through a half-mouth of sand, “hlike onn a schale of wone tcho tshen—“ 

“Let’s see!” Spinel interrupted. “How many seconds was I abandoned in the Garden _this_ time?” 

That would probably be more than ten, Dusty guessed. 

“It was seven months, rounding down — wanna be generous. Two hundred and thirteen days, rounding up — what happened to generosity? Oh, right.” She giggled. “You _abandoned_ me.” For a good twenty seconds, Dusty’s face was rubbed into the sand before Spinel remembered where she was going with this. “Whoopsie. Got a liiittle distracted there. Ahem! Five thousand one hundred and ten hours, then uhhhh, I’m always bad with Earth minutes — hang on.” 

Dusty felt a gloved finger exaggeratedly tap her skull for what may have been exactly a minute. 

“Ah! Whatevah, it’s somewhere in the three hundred thousand range, but what’s a few hundred thousand minutes of mind-crushing agony between friends?” She ‘jokingly’ slapped Dusty’s head at that. “Huh,” she said, “you grew your hair out...” and trailed off. Dusty could feel a light tug on her scalp as Spinel rubbed a strand of hair between her fingers for inspection. She struggled to lift her head, just to speak. 

“Is that like a nine, or…?” With a growl her face was shoved back down. Dusty had no idea why she was digging this hole deeper than it already was. Maybe it’s because the moment didn’t feel real. None of it did. She knew she wasn’t dreaming, but it felt distant. Her mind focused on the waves, closer than she’d been to the water in months. The tide crashed against the rocks. The tightness around her body wavered, slightly. 

The voice above her came out quiet; in Spinel’s case this was always worse. “I spoke with your old human friend. She seemed… She didn’t know. Nonna them do, right?” Dusty didn’t reply— couldn’t. Spinel continued. “Didya forget me that quick? Got rid of the pest, the useless broken toy? Outta sight, outta mind?” She released some of the pressure on Dusty’s head, letting her reply. She spit out a mouthful of sand. 

“Yup.” 

Dusty was suddenly lifted high into the air — a moment of brief weightlessness, like she could float away from all this, before she was torn back down into the now very hard beach. She landed on her back. Hitting the sand didn’t hurt much (though she heard the crunch of bones) but the tightness of the arms around her going loose then taught cut into her stomach as she landed. She puked instinctively the second her head settled, then turned her neck and vomited the rest of the alcohol in her stomach out onto the sand. It hurt. A lot. This was real pain. This feeling was her birthright and had grown up with her. In just half a year she’d forgotten it, and now it wore itself around her like an old coat. Pain fit Dusty like a glove. 

Soon the discharge turned to hacking coughs. Dusty felt like a kid again. She turned to look at Spinel, a threat who towered over her and glared. Suddenly, the moment felt a lot more real. “Fuck you!” Dusty yelled. “I _wish_ I could forget you, you freak!” Spinel was shaking beyond belief now. Her arms began to slide off, looking like she wanted to pulverize her into the ground with a pair of bus-sized fists. Then, thought better of it, spiraled eyes staring at her still-restrained hands. Dusty kept going. “You think that ‘broken toy’ bullshit is gonna work on me? What, if I cry and blubber and apologize — ‘I’m sooo sorry, Spinny’ — you’ll patch up my wounds and promise me it’ll be okay, or some other cliche bullshit?” Before she could continue a hand slapped over her mouth. 

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up _shut up shut up SHUT UP!”_ Spinel was stomping, her hair looked like two needlebeds. “I don’t want you to apologize! I want you to pay! I want you to _suffer_ like I have!”

Dusty bit into the screaming gem’s finger — a chew-toy squeak wasn’t the most appropriate noise, but the bite got the intended effect. “Pay? How’s that, huh? How have I not _paid?_ I’d say I’ve paid a lot, Spinel. I’d say I’m in goddamn _debt_. What about before, huh? When I was just your friend and you fucking killed me? Was that me paying? That happened before. Was it an _investment?”_ Thankfully, Spinel seemed content to keep screaming derangedly at her, cause Dusty’s mouth remained free. Her heart beat, but there wasn’t a good angle. 

“What I did and what you did are not comparable!” Spinel said. 

“I agree! You’re much worse!” 

“No! Shut up! I just wanted to help you!” Spinel said it with the same tone, same face of erratic desperation she’d had when Dusty first confronted her; then her face twisted into a sneer. “Is that why you abandoned me, in the same place I’d spent eons waiting alone, this time with no hope whatsoever? No, that's not true. The first three months, I was convinced you’d come back, send help, do _anything_.” Her voice cracked with that last word. “Was that supposed to _help_?” She laughed. “If what we did is so gosh dang comparable!” 

“Yeah,” Dusty said, “I did it to teach you a valuable lesson on independence. That’s all this was, just like in the movies. Just a test.” 

Spinel was prepared to shout again, but caught herself. Her face twitched, eyes softened. There was a pause, then, “Really?” 

Dusty braced her dipshit, now-working pain receptors. Her heart beat again. 

“No, you fucking idiot.” 

Spinel lifted her high above her head, bent her massive arms back, and aimed for the water. Dusty was facing away from the lunatic that was about to hurl her aquaphobic ass into the ocean, and Spinel had been careful to keep both palms restrained flat against her thighs. She couldn’t use her feet, since she needed to aim. Dusty’s brain raced to figure out how to make what was about to happen _not_ do that. 

_Okay, brain. Things have been dicey between us. But you’re about to receive a whooole lot more trauma very soon if you don’t help me out here. I lied last time about the no alcohol, but if you’ve noticed, it doesn’t really work on me anymore, so… it’s help me or suffer another horrible flashback. _

Dusty suddenly remembered her worst symptom. Up until then, it’d been both one of the bigger drags on her Pink Experience; simultaneously a source of admittedly fucked up entertainment. Super strength, normal durability. Spinel was yelling something inconsequential right now that Dusty totally blocked out. She pre-opened her mouth just in case, braced herself mentally (ahaha), and then snapped her own neck 180 degrees to face down. 

It’s strange — being conscious through the severing of nearly all your body’s nerves. Dusty felt tingly all over her head. The pain was about a seven, but in a kinda chokey way? There was pain caught in her throat like a sideways chicken bone, refusing to be swallowed or spit, just bobbing up and down. Then, there was the pressure stuck in her chest. She let that one out. 

Spinel was looking up at her, horrified. 

There was a crack like thunder, the kind that sounds like God just snapped a branch in Earth’s ear. Immediately, she was falling. The elastic bindings that held her simply ceased to be, replaced with puffy clouds that began as if they’d been baked in a gem-shaped mold, but soon dissipated into nothing. What became of the beach below was less whimsical. As she fell, swirling bits of sand cut her skin and eyes. Landing head first perhaps delayed her broken neck’s healing, though as soon as it began she wished it could be delayed more. If the feeling of breaking her neck felt fucked up, the feeling of her throat and spine repairing themselves was much worse. As the last few million nerves were reconnected, she watched the dying tornado she’d built from the beach, like a child admiring their sand castle before the ocean licked it up. The sand had begun to lazily fall back down, a somewhat tolerable rainfall. All in all, the scene was pretty _dusty_. That was a good one, she’d tell that to… 

Oh right. Fuck. Well, she’d at least write it down. 

The walls of the crater were oddly uniform. It wasn’t perfect, but the sides climbed up in grooves that she used as stairs. Dusty thought of the way soundwaves worked and decided this probably made sense. She noticed the shimmer at the rim, a few feet from the gaping wound she’d inflicted on the beach. It was weird, pulling her former friend’s, now greatest enemy’s heart from the sand. She cradled it in her hands and stared at it, tilting it over to shift the rising sun’s light that glimmered on its surface. It was the source of potentially endless misery and suffering for her, and it looked like a supersized hunk of jewelry. 

It was beautiful, admittedly. Glowing, even. 

Glowing a lot, actually. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Dusty grasped the rock tightly with one hand, pulled it back, and aimed as far out as she could. She only hesitated for another second, until she saw what looked like a hand made of light reaching towards her. Dusty used every ounce of strength she had and hurled the heart out to sea. 

  
  
  
  
  


Which felt like it should have bought her longer than a minute. Dusty sprinted across the grassy hills of outer Beach City fast and hard enough to leave holes in the ground. She should have left sooner. She was so stupid to stay in this crazy shithole town, wallowing in misery. She should have found some way to fucking nuke that awful garden out of space. Of course this would happen, she was obviously the unluckiest dipshit in the history of the universe. Except maybe for—

The other nominee for ‘unluckiest dipshit in the history of the universe’ tackled her from behind, again. Dusty had just reached the top of a particularly tall hill and Spinel’s spring tackle number made them both airborne. Unlike with Krystal, Dusty could feel the yelling monster clawing at her back — very wet. She thought she could hear her shirt rip where it was clawed especially deep. Thankfully (???) at least in her blind rage, Spinel wasn’t thinking to restrain her. Her heart beat, but Spinel _was_ still clinging to her back. The ground started moving toward them, and Dusty guessed she’d lose if it became a ground wrestle again. Spinel did excel at grapplers. 

She excelled at all fighting game characters, but that’s irrelevant. 

Just meters from the ground, Dusty pictured the ocean, imagined sinking in its depths, moving from one side to the next. She screamed, which felt appropriate at the time. They plunged into an oval of pure white. Dusty and Spinel fell again, from much higher than before. She had only really thought, ‘Up!’ as she screamed, so this was promising. She noticed the absence of scraping at her back, and heard a faint, “What the fu—“ 

Dusty struck her left hand out, at an angle, and let the energy loose (she needed a better word for that. Ki blast?). The ki blast did something, certainly. They were now both falling a thousand feet while _spinning_. Less enjoyable than just falling the normal thousand feet. The ground wasn’t discernible from the sky anymore, the edges of each spilled into the other. She wouldn’t be able to time this. She figured she had a fifty/fifty chance, and prepared. Dusty pressed two hands against Spinel’s screaming, wide-eyed face, and met the ground with the gem’s head. 

_The winner of the Unluckiest Dipshit in the Universe award is Spinel. _

The head didn’t pop into whimsical cloudstuff like last time, it was more fucked up than that. It was like squeezing down on a balloon that wouldn’t pop. Spinel’s head sunk in with her hands, up to her wrists, then bounced back into shape. Dusty sat up, horrified, and began to scramble back. Spinel turned over onto her hands and knees, all the while her head waved like a water bed. She turned over and clumsily fell onto her butt, and Dusty saw that her eyes were spinning in her head. Soon, the wavering of what should have been a skull stopped, and after an ill second both eyes locked onto her. 

_There’s been a mistake. Spinel did not win the award. Unluckiest Dipshit goes to Dusty. _

“Holy fuck,” she said, “I’m about to lose to a fucking _looney toon_.” 

“Dusty,” Spinel said, in a low tone. She could finally see her in the early morning light. The gem was practically magenta, her hue had darkened so much. (That’s right, bitch was a walking mood ring.) That was probably the case before the beach, but now, she saw her shape had warped too. Appropriate for a clown, Spinel looked like a collage of a dozen funhouse mirror snapshots. One hand was half bloated, three fingers inflated and two shriveled. One leg was three times longer than normal, wrapped around her crumpled body, a fence of pink rope. Her other leg had a twist in the middle, like a pig’s tail. Half her hair was shriveled, just an inch of spiky fluff off her head. Seaweed hung from her hair like snot. Only her face seemed normal, for her. Except, it was completely blank, staring at Dusty. 

“I’m gonna fuck you up,” Spinel said. 

Dusty began to crawl backwards. She dragged a shattered leg that only just began to heal. Maybe it’d broken against Spinel’s body, or maybe the fear was driving her insane — her leg hurt a lot. Spinel looked from the bent leg to Dusty’s face, numbly. The clown rose, and the zombie panicked, pulling herself back grass after handful of grass. The terrifying gem took a single step before falling forward; she remembered her useless leg and glared at the fucker who ruined it. Said fucker hoped she could get away in time, that maybe Spinel was too damaged. Then she extended out her one good arm and grabbed the calf of Dusty’s broken leg. She screamed. How could it hurt so much? It got worse when Spinel started to pull her forward. There was a pause, swearing from her attacker’s direction, and then a hand grabbed Dusty’s other leg and tugged her several feet forwards at once. Which still hurt.

Dusty started bargaining through the pain. “J-Just… You don’t have to do this, right? You’re free. You can start over, find someone else to be best friends with!” 

“I’m not free,” Spinel said, numb. “I’ll never be free.” 

“Neither am I!” Dusty yelled. “I’m stuck with this shit forever, as you fucking know!” Spinel’s eyes narrowed and Dusty remembered her panic. “Wh-What are you even about to do to me?!”

“Make you pay.” 

“Pay what?! What else can you _do_ to me?” 

“You’ll see.”

“When?! I’m right here! All you’ve done is fucking talk!” 

“Shut up.”

“Were you talking to yourself when you killed me, too? Even getting your ‘revenge’ you won’t shut the fuck up!”

“_You_ shut up!” The indifferent mask fell. Spinel was shaking again. Tightening fingers sunk into her leg, bruising skin beneath her pants. “You’re a bad friend!” 

“Slightly less bad than being a murderer and kidnapper, Spinel. Sorry. Earth fact number fuck-if-I-know.” Her leg had straightened, the bone had started setting. Dusty kept the attention on her face, though. 

“You made me think it would be different this time, that I wouldn’t be left again!” 

“I didn’t ask you to invade my planet, live in my house, take over my fucking life. I played along so you wouldn’t fucking _kill_ me. Spoiler alert!” Dusty framed her pink face with two pink jazz hands. “Didn’t work! You wormed your way into fucking everything, because you were obsessed with me, and then destroyed my life because yoooou knew best!” 

Spinel yanked Dusty fully in front of her. She limped and fell over her, leering over her. “What life?” she hissed. “What were you before I showed up? An alcoholic, depressed loser?” Her one good arm began to slide up Dusty’s stomach, going over the edge, flattening, trying to get under her: she was going to entangle her again. Spinel brought her other hand, bloated and shriveled, to her chest dramatically. “Oh, poor Dusty!” 

Dusty glared at Spinel and seethed. She tried to swing her arm out, to push the mocking gem away from her, but couldn’t. Arms could barely move, and her chest felt a tightness from everywhere at once. Panic set in. Spinel had trapped her. 

“You said I monopolized your time? It just seems that way to your stupid fucking _organic_ brain because I was the only one who even wanted to spend time with you.” 

Dusty stopped struggling for a second. She hesitated. “Th-That’s not—"

“Your other ‘friends’ that only invite you out as an afterthought for that stupid green moss you give them? Is that what I got in the way of? Only I liked spending time with you. Do you know why?”

Dusty was silent. 

Spinel grinned. It wasn’t like her normal smile. It looked like a crack broke in her face. Edges that could cut. “Because I’m programmed to. If I had any self-respect at all, I’d have left you too.” 

Dusty was numb to everything. She couldn’t feel hot or cold anymore. She couldn’t feel sheets on her body, clothes on her back, a partner at her side. She broke bones out of boredom now, just to feel the little sting, the peculiar ache it gave her. She couldn’t feel another person’s hands. 

So, why could she feel Spinel’s arm crushing her ribs? 

Why could she feel the hot sting of tears running down her cheeks? It itched. It burned like acid. Spinel’s smile crept back, then slid off. Pink eyes stared blankly at a crying, pink pathetic face. The mocking, disfigured hand at her gem slipped to her side loosely. Dusty watched blurrily as the lines in Spinel’s eyes faded away. The gem started to twitch and quake over her; the expression on her once spiteful face turned to nausea. Her slight overbite bit hard into her lip. She tugged at her one normal pigtail. Her arm disentangled itself from Dusty and retracted and began scratching at her head. Dusty heard panicked mutterings between chattering teeth. 

“what am I doing..? what am I doing..? why am I like this? why do I want to hurt you so bad..?” 

Dusty took the chance to claw herself backwards through the grass. Spinel flinched at this, her eyes growing small and panicked; she instinctively reached out a hand before restraining herself. She slumped down and hid her face behind her one working knee. Dusty scrambled up. She turned around to run away, then stopped. She turned back and aimed her palm at the crying gem, waited for her heart to beat, which should be any instant — she was terrified. There were birds singing now, a cricket somewhere behind her chirped. The world around was rousing awake as Dusty waited for the power to destroy Spinel. Her eventual heart beat felt like a hammer against her rib cage. The scent of the ocean slid over Dusty’s body and smelt like sewage, because of _her_. It must have been carried by a wind she’d never feel again, because of _her_. The sunlight that climbed over the horizon cut her eyes like a razor blade, because of _her_. The singing birds, the now-quiet cricket, all part of a world she was a ghost in, because of the sniveling murderer on the ground. Dusty closed her eyes and fired. 

She left the sad alien once again, crying next to the hole she’d blown in the ground. She didn’t make it so far away this time; immediately she bumped into something tall and sturdy. 

“Shit,” a gruff voice said, “so you’re what caused the boom on the beach.” Dusty looked up and saw a tall, muscular gem with crooked teeth and a mean smile. The gem looked over her head (easily, since she was just over five feet and this bitch was a tree) and her mean smile grew wider and meaner. “Well fuck, that’s something! The organic saved us the trouble of pummeling the Spinel into the dirt. First, we detect our old ship on the very planet we were headed to anyway. And now, the fight we were anticipating ended without us even lifting a finger.” She whistled and slapped Dusty on the shoulder, hard enough to threaten to re-shatter her newly healed leg. She expected to be let go, but the giant just gripped harder and tossed her body nonchalantly to the side. She hit the ground hard, but it was nothing to the pain the unstable pink jackass-in-the-box caused. Dusty looked up and discovered that the gem hadn’t been speaking to her; if that one was a tree, the yellow one behind her was a goddamn mountain. To even call her muscular seemed inappropriate, it was less that her limbs were sculpted and more that they were just wider than Dusty’s entire body. And in both of their shadows, was a gem even smaller than her, truly dwarfed by the other two — lime green with a triangle shaped hairdo and spiked visor. She was occupied entirely with a floating screen in front of herself, and beside the yellow one looked like a doll. 

Ironically, the voice of the giant-plus wavered and shook. “W-What about Nephrite?” she whispered. 

The smaller (still massive) but clearly dominant gem didn’t even look back, just grunted, “What about Nephrite? There’s no way an entertainment gem flew a ship like that this far. Besides, she even fled to Earth of all places; socializing with organics, human especially, is already against the code. She’s a traitor. If we see her, she gets what the Spinel gets.” 

Dusty surprised herself when she asked, “And what’s that?” Everyone looked at the ‘organic’ laid out on her side in the grass, with the exception of the green geek, whose eyes remained on her tablet. Spinel — who only just now seemed to be processing what was happening — looked shocked, the mega-giant looked startled, and the mini-giant just grinned. 

“Why, shattered, of course!” Dusty must not have looked thrilled, because the mean gem raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? We’re doing you a favor, clearly. We’re not here for you, there’s nothing in the code against humans and gem traitors fighting.” Dusty’s expression remained the same, and the gem shook her head. “Whatever. I can’t be paid enough to understand animals. Topaz, restrain the prisoner. She’s clearly been poofed and hastily reformed, so even you should be able to handle it.” 

The gem referred to as ‘Topaz’ nodded and warily approached Spinel, who still sat on the ground and stared at Dusty; she didn’t resist when the massive yellow hands pulled her limbs behind her chest and restrained them with some glowing device. The being who’d just tried to destroy her was effortlessly picked up like a purse. It should have been funny. The two giant gems began to walk away, the mini-gem blindly following, and Dusty saw how they’d arrived: just beyond the hills, behind the tree line, she could make out the top of some sort of ship. The three gems were going to leave the planet on that in a few minutes, probably the whole solar system. Her problem had solved itself, evidently. She could go home. Alone. Everything would go back to how it had been like before Spinel violently interrupted it (for the second time). And then it would stay that way, for a few thousand years. 

“What’s your dumb code say about gem-human relations, exactly?!” Dusty yelled. Most of the posse of weird space purists stopped, and turned around. The leader looked annoyed to still be interacting with a lower life form; Topaz still looked scared; the green pipsqueak had kept walking for a few moments before realizing she was alone, then hustled back; and Spinel started to shake her head at whatever Dusty was about to do. 

The mean gem tapped her foot impatiently. “That it’s unforgivable, a disgrace to everything our kind has stood for for eons, and punishable to all parties with death. Why?” 

“Okay, that’s what I figured,” Dusty said. The gem glared at her for a while, then moved to leave again, when she added, “Cause we totally fucked.” 

Maybe the Earth stopped spinning in that moment. It sure felt like everything had grinded to a halt. If she’d looked up, she may have seen a flock of birds frozen mid flight. The first movement was the lead gem’s head, which moved from looking at Dusty to Spinel, and back again, several times. The next movement was the color in Spinel’s face, shifting from dark pink to cherry red. The leader finally bent down to the tiny green one’s level, and asked something. It looked like a question. The smaller one answered, and the look on the mean gem’s face showed disgust. She turned to Dusty again, and walked over. She bent down. Even squatting, she felt massive so close; brought her face inches from Dusty’s. 

“Come again?” she said. 

“Made love? Had sex? Interspecies relations? Alien probing? What’s not getting through? Do I need dolls to demonstrate or something?” Dusty was very stupid, and didn’t know why she did anything ever. Spinel had begun to scream, shouting that she was lying, that they hated each other. The leader waved a hand without turning around, and Topaz hesitantly covered the hysterical prisoner’s mouth. 

The alien laughed. “You’re funny. Okay, one more shot. Come again?” This was getting tedious. What would make this douchebag mad? 

“The activity,” Dusty began, “that made Steven Universe.” 

The gem’s eye twitched. She stood up very suddenly and lifted a booted foot. Dusty flashed a smile, before her little pink head was stomped into the ground; her scar struck the earth and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, if you think I went too far with Spinel, this is basically how her fight with Steven would've gone if he didn't have a shield, so...


End file.
